The Rohan Pride Chronicles, Part I: Alone
by anolinde
Summary: When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, the lives of those she loves will be compromised. Rape and torture scenes.
1. Prologue: Teachings

**WARNING:** Beginning with Chapter 26 ("A Sudden Change"), this story - and all subsequent parts of The Rohan Pride Trilogy - will deal heavily with the subject of rape. Although there are no rape scenes after Alone, there are many references and/or flashbacks to these scenes in Reunions, Terms, and the epilogue. As such, The Rohan Pride Trilogy may be triggering for survivors of sexual abuse. If you would like to know more about the triggering parts before you decide whether or not to read, please do not hesitate to PM me and ask for clarification.

**PLEASE NOTE: **This is the only disclaimer you will see in Alone. I do not, in any way, shape, or form, own any part of Tolkien's brainchild. I am not making any money from this. The non-canon characters, however (with the exception of Raniean and Trelan, who are borrowed with permission from Cassia and Siobhan), are my original creations.

* * *

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**Prologue**

Théodred anxiously strode down the street from Meduseld, the King's Hall, into the heart of Edoras, searching for his younger cousin Gúthwyn. The twenty-six-year-old prince had not seen her in awhile, and he was starting to worry, the evidence clear in his azure-colored eyes. His fair hair flew out behind him as he made his way through the everyday crowds, scanning the road for any sign of Gúthwyn.

At last he found her, sitting near the edge of the road watching a group of boys wrestling. She was five years old, with dark brown hair (unusual for one of the Rohirrim) that reached her waist in a tangled mess. Her blue eyes were stormy and dried tears lay upon her cheeks. Her arms were folded across her chest.

"Gúthwyn, what is the matter?" Théodred asked, sitting down beside her. She turned to look up at him, and her eyes flashed as she explained her anger.

"They won't let me play with them!"

"Who will not let you play?"

"Them!" Gúthwyn exclaimed as she pointed in the direction of the boys. "They say that since I am a girl I should be inside sewing, because that is what their mothers do. They say that I am too weak. It's not fair!" she pouted.

"That is ridiculous. Your sister could easily best them," Théodred responded, his eyes fixed on the fighting children, noting their level of skill. Gúthwyn sighed, and Théodred could tell she was close to tears again.

"But she is nine! I am only five," she reminded him.

"Well, my cousin, you have not learned to fight yet either," Théodred gently pointed out. This time the tears really did come, and as Gúthwyn buried her face in his shirt he instantly regretted his words.

"It's not fair!" she sobbed. "I want to wre… wre…"

"Wrestle?"

"Yes, I want to wrestle with them!" Théodred's heart went out to his little cousin.

"I will teach you how to fight," he offered. Instantly she perked up, and when she lifted her face from his tunic a toothy smile graced her features.

"Really? Do you really mean it?"

"Of course I mean it," Théodred replied. "Now come with me and we will get some lunch—I cannot teach you anything on an empty stomach."

"Alright!" Gúthwyn eagerly agreed as she bounced up. After sending one last glare towards the other children she allowed her hand to be held by Théodred's and together they made their way towards Meduseld.

Meduseld was a majestic hall, with a roof thatched as if with gold, containing King Théoden's grand throne room. On the outside, its walls were decorated with golden vines and horses, the latter being loved dearly by all the people of Rohan. A short flight of stairs led from the street to it, where its doors were guarded ceaselessly with men wearing armor and carrying spears and shields.

Seeing Théodred and Gúthwyn, the guards moved aside so they could enter through the great doors; Théodred held one of them open for his cousin. Once stepping into Meduseld they were in the throne room, a long hall that also served as a dining room with a hearth in the middle of it. On a dais at the far end was the throne, upon which Théoden son of Thengel sat, deep in thought at the moment. Golden locks fell onto his shoulders, framing a face in which dark-colored eyes were set. When he saw the two enter, he smiled.

"Hello, my son!" he called to Théodred, who gave a short bow. Remembering her manners, Gúthwyn performed a brief, wobbling curtsy, much to the amusement of her kin and other guards in the room. "Greetings, Gúthwyn my lady," the King said, trying to keep a straight face.

"Father, we will be getting some lunch and then I will take Gúthwyn back outside," Théodred spoke, moving towards the throne with Gúthwyn close behind. He purposely omitted why he was taking her out, for he did not think the king would approve. Éowyn had had to wait until she was two years older than Gúthwyn was now to begin her training.

"All right," Théoden replied. "Just be careful."

"We will," Théodred promised. Taking Gúthwyn's hand again, he turned around and led her to a door on the right-side wall. Pushing it open, he held it for Gúthwyn and followed her into the kitchen.

Brytta, the cook, was busy cutting up a piece of meat with a large knife when they walked in.

"Hello, dears," she greeted them, hurriedly wiping her hands on her apron. "What can I get you?"

"We would like a lunch for two, please," Théodred responded. Gúthwyn made no sound—she was staring at the knife in fascination. Théodred realized she had never been in the kitchens before, and that the only knives she had ever seen were the small ones they used to eat.

Brytta quickly began opening cupboards, pulling out various eating utensils. "You two head back into the hall and seat yourselves at a table. I will bring your plates out soon," she told them.

"Thank you," Théodred replied. In an undertone he said to his younger companion, "Gúthwyn, what do you say?"

"Thank you," she echoed Théodred.

"Oh, any time dear," Brytta responded, withdrawing a loaf of bread from a smaller cupboard.

Théodred and Gúthwyn went back into the throne room and found a table in the corner to eat at. Théoden was now reviewing a report that one of the older guards had given him. Gúthwyn was silent as she stared around the room, and Théodred let her remain in her thoughts. Gúthwyn's siblings, Éowyn and Éomer, had already eaten, he supposed.

The three children had come to Meduseld only two years ago, after their mother Théodwyn had died from grief and illness. Éomund had been killed in an Orc ambush only a little while before that. Stricken from his sister's death, Théoden took her children in and was raising them. Éomer, the oldest, had been eleven, thirteen years younger than Théodred. Only last year had the three siblings somewhat recovered.

Théodred's thoughts were interrupted when Brytta placed two plates in front of him and Gúthwyn. A bowl of soup was in the center and a slice of bread lay on the plate. Next to the food, the cook placed a mug of ale in front of Théodred and one of water before Gúthwyn, along with a cloth napkin each.

"Here you are," Brytta said.

"It looks delicious," Théodred complimented her.

"Thank you," she answered before returning back to the kitchen.

Théodred and Gúthwyn ate the rest of their meal in silence, Gúthwyn occasionally fidgeting in her seat at the thought of finally learning how to fight. When she finished, Théodred was still consuming his meal. She began hopping around in her seat, impatiently waiting for him to be done. When he had drained his bowl, she breathed a sigh of relief, but then she saw that he still had half of his bread left.

"Théodred, hurry up!" she begged. Her cousin merely grinned, and slowed down his chewing. Gúthwyn's face became pained. She had not yet learned how to be patient. "Théodred!"

When the prince had finally finished, he insisted on stacking the plates and bowls neatly on top of each other. Gúthwyn was almost beside herself with anxiety. When all of the utensils had been arranged to Théodred's liking, she turned around and began to run towards the doors leading to the street. But something was wrong. She was not moving.

Théodred laughed as he pulled his cousin back towards him. "Gúthwyn, we are not ready to go yet. We have to make sure you are clean." Gúthwyn sighed: She had forgotten about that.

The prince knelt down and checked Gúthwyn's dress and face for soup stains. Seeing none, he stood up. He knew that he should get her in more appropriate clothing, but he thought he had tortured her enough.

Gúthwyn needed no words before she bolted for the exit. Théodred jogged to catch up with her and opened one of the doors, sending a bright sunlight streaming into the hall. His cousin ran past him, holding up her dress so as not to trip on the fabric. She made a rather comical sight, Théodred thought. Apparently the guards agreed too, for underneath their helmets one could see a smile appear on some faces.

At the bottom of the stairs, Gúthwyn turned to wait for Théodred, not knowing where he would take her. When the prince joined her, he took her hand again and began leading her around the side of Meduseld. Tumbled slopes surrounded the Golden Hall, but if you walked far enough past the armory you would see a spot where the land was as large as a grand clearing in the forest. When one stood on this piece of land, they had a spectacular view of the mountains and plains.

There was a small path leading to this clearing, which Théodred quickly found and began to walk on.

"Théodred, where are we going?" Gúthwyn asked, her eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

"Patience, young one, you must learn patience. You will see when we get there," Théodred responded. Gúthwyn pouted, but it was only for a few seconds until the prospect of what was ahead re-entered her brain.

A short while later found them coming into the clearing. Gúthwyn gave a cry of joy and raced around the enclosure, stopping at the edge and staring at the landscape below and before her. Théodred came silently behind his cousin and took a moment to appreciate the beauty of Rohan. Even this high up, he could see the mounds of kings before his father to his left, covered with the white flower _simbelmynë_.

He noticed Gúthwyn looking up at him impatiently, and he tore his eyes away from the view and smiled down at her.

"Well, let us start, shall we?" Gúthwyn whooped happily but quieted down a second later as Théodred's face grew serious. "Before we do, however, I want to talk to you about something." He knelt down so he was eye-level with the little girl. "The skills I will be teaching you are for your defense. You must never start a fight, never join one unless you are thrown into it, and then by all means get out as fast as you can. Do you understand what I am trying to say?" Gúthwyn nodded once. "Then what am I trying to say?"

"I must never use what you're trying to teach me on inn… inno… innos..." she paused, searching for the right word.

"Innocent," Théodred helped her out. She nodded again.

"Innocent people," she finished.

"Good," Théodred praised, standing up again. "Now, the first thing I will teach you is how to throw a decent punch. Afterwards, we will move on to more complicated maneuvers." By the way Gúthwyn frowned he guessed that she did not know what the last two words meant. "You will see when we get there. Make a fist for me," Théodred instructed. Hesitantly she complied, and right away the prince noticed something she was doing wrong. "You never, never, never want to place your thumb inside of your fist. When you punch someone hard enough, you could break it. Keep your thumb here." Bending over, he removed her thumb from inside her grip and placed it so that it was touching her middle finger. "There. Now try punching me."

She looked up at him, confused. "But I'll hurt you!" she protested. Théodred merely chuckled.

"I will manage," he replied.

"Where should I punch you?" Gúthwyn asked slowly, still not believing her older cousin was letting her hit him.

"In the stomach," was the response. It was just as well, for Gúthwyn only reached up to the man's waist.

"Are you sure about this?" she questioned.

"Yes, I am positive." Gúthwyn checked to make sure her fist was still in the correct position. Gathering all her strength, she raised her clenched hand and thrust it into Théodred's abdomen.

Théodred staggered back as the air left his stomach. Although as the Second Marshal of the Mark, he had received much worse in his time and was not really in pain, he had not believed that a five-year-old could throw a punch that fast and strong. Gasping in shock, his eyes widened as he looked down at Gúthwyn. Tears welled up in her eyes and she threw herself at her cousin, clutching his right leg and crying into it.

"I'm sorry!" she sobbed. "I'm really sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you!" Quickly Théodred regained his breath and moved his hand up to stroke the young girl's hair.

"I am fine," he whispered. "You just caught me by surprise, that is all." His excuse was feeble, but he knew that a young one would believe it. Sure enough, her tears changed into sniffles, and she looked up at him curiously.

"Honest?" she questioned, wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve.

"Honest," Théodred confirmed. "Let us see that punch again." Gúthwyn's eyes were now cautious, and when she backed up and threw her fist at him, it was half-hearted and weak. "That was not your best effort," he reprimanded her gently. "Try harder."

And so she repeated the punch, over and over, until Théodred was satisfied of her abilities. As the day turned to dusk, the prince of Rohan continued to teach his cousin the necessary skills of defense, heedless of the time.

* * *

Éomer and Éowyn were sitting at a table in the great hall, eating their dinner as night fell outside. It was close to their bedtime and they were determined to stay up as long as they could before Théoden herded them to their bedrooms.

The king was dining with them that day, and as a result servants would continually come by to make sure their king and his niece and nephew were doing all right.

"Where is Gúthwyn?" Éowyn questioned Théoden.

"She and Théodred went outside awhile ago," the king responded, a touch of worry coming over his face. At that moment, the doors of Meduseld opened, and Théodred strode in, carrying a worn-out Gúthwyn. Her head was resting on his shoulder, and her eyes were bleary, yet she had not fallen asleep.

"Greetings, Father," Théodred spoke, coming up to the table and sitting down next to Théoden, still carrying his cousin.

When Théodred sat down, Gúthwyn looked up, curious to see why they had stopped and what Théodred was saying. Seeing her siblings' faces, her eyes cleared and she grinned.

"Hello, Éowyn and Éomer!" she smiled, waving at them. Éomer waved back, and Éowyn replied:

"Hello, Gúthwyn. Where have you and Théodred been?"

"Théodred was teaching me how to fight!" Gúthwyn answered before Théodred could stop her, grinning triumphantly.

"Théodred was _what_?" Théoden asked, although his gaze was fixed on his son.

"Teaching me how to fight!" Gúthwyn repeated, unaware that she had placed her cousin in an uncomfortable position. Théoden sighed.

"Éowyn, can you see to Gúthwyn and make sure she has dinner before putting her to bed?" he asked. "I have to discuss something with Théodred." Éowyn nodded. "I will check on all three of you later," Théoden continued as he motioned for Théodred to follow him. The prince set his cousin down between Éowyn and Éomer before walking after his father, steeling himself for the lecture ahead. Gúthwyn took no notice of Théodred's manner, waving goodbye at him and giggling.

Théoden led his son through a door and into his bedroom. A large bed sprawled over much of the space, but a wooden desk and chair had been placed in comfortably. Théoden motioned for his son to sit on the chair, and when Théodred complied, the king began speak.

"Why did you teach Gúthwyn how to fight? You know she is going to want to use the skills you taught her! She is too young! I made Éowyn wait until she was seven!" The king paused in his ranting, taking a deep breath to calm himself down. "Why would you teach her defense so early?" Théodred blushed, for he had a feeling that his father would not like the following explanation.

"She wanted to wrestle with some boys down the street," he put it simply.

"She wanted to wrestle with some _boys_?" Théoden yelled. "And you are saying that when you had finished teaching her you would _let _her?" Théodred decided that in his position it was better to say nothing. "As much as I love my niece, she is not old enough for that to happen! They could hurt her! I promised I would protect your cousins, but I would break Théodwyn's trust if I were to let her wrestle with these boys at such a young age!" Théodred thought this slightly unfair.

"But father, Gúthwyn learns quickly. She is not as vulnerable as you—"

"Unless I am mistaken, _I_ am the guardian of this child, not you." Théoden replied. "When she reaches Éowyn's age, I will permit her to play with those boys, but until then I don't want her going anywhere near them, do you understand me?"

"Yes, Father," Théodred sighed. It would not be an easy task to obey the king's command.

"Good," Théoden replied. "Now get some sleep." Nodding, Théodred rose. After bowing to his father, he walked out of the room, headed towards his own sleeping quarters. Looking after him, Théoden sighed, and then went to check on Éomer, Éowyn, and Gúthwyn.

* * *

Five minutes later found Gúthwyn racing through the dining room along with Éowyn and Éomer, struggling to evade capture from the evil, terrible monster that sought to seize them. Gúthwyn's face was beaded with sweat, and occasionally she would let out a shriek as the assailant neared her. Éomer would come to her rescue just in the nick of time, darting past the demon and picking her up before the creature knew what was happening.

"Éomer! Éowyn! Gúthwyn! Stop this nonsense right now!" Théoden ordered as he ran after the three. He had given up on the thirteen-year-old Éomer, his nephew being extraordinarily fast for his age. Unfortunately, whenever the king got close to Gúthwyn, Éomer would fly past him and scoop his sister up in his arms, never slowing down a bit. Why he still took part in this childish game Théoden did not know, but he had a slight suspicion that his nephew thought it funny to help his sisters evade him.

The guards were not interfering; rather, they were watching with increasing interest as the children managed to stay away from their uncle.

_Has it been that long since I left the throne? _Théoden wondered as he ran after Éowyn. "Théodred! Get out here and help me round these three up!" A hand shot out of an open door just as Éomer ran past it, grabbing the boy by his shirt and bringing him to a stop. Out stepped Théodred, and Théoden breathed a sigh of relief. He knew it would not be long before the two girls were caught without Éomer to help them; out of the corner of his eye, he watched in satisfaction as Théodred herding Éomer towards the bedroom that they both shared.

Théoden felt someone run behind him, and as quick as lightning whirled around and grabbed an unlucky Éowyn.

"All right, Éowyn, you have been caught. Now get to bed," Théoden told her. Meekly, Éowyn nodded, and when her uncle let her go she raced after Théodred. Now there was only Gúthwyn to take care of. _Two down, one more to go_, Théoden told himself, and then he could end this ritual. Normally Théodred was chasing the three, but as the prince had retired before the siblings started, the king had been stuck with the task of rounding them up.

Gúthwyn screamed as her uncle came running after her. He was less than two feet away and reaching down to grab her when she dropped to the ground and crawled under Théoden's legs, coming out the other side and running again.

This was too much for the guards, and they burst into hysterical laughter, their serious façade dissolving instantly. Théoden turned and glared at them before rushing off after his niece. As he neared her once more he tripped over his own feet and fell face-first to the floor. Gúthwyn waited patiently for her uncle to get up, but when he did not she began to feel worried.

"Uncle?" she called. "My lord?" She remembered the phrase from the guards' speech to Théoden, and it seemed to be directed at him. As a last resort, she tried his name. "Théoden?" Still he did not move. "Uncle!" she cried, racing out from behind a table and running over to him, kneeling down beside his still form. The guards did not make a move to help their king, and she wondered why. But that did not matter—she had to make sure Uncle Théoden was alright.

Suddenly the king's eyes flew open, and Gúthwyn gave a shriek of surprise as he reached up and grabbed her. "NO FAIR!" she yelled at the top of her lungs as her uncle stood up, still holding her. "You're not supposed to cheat!" Her complaints continued as Théoden carried her towards the door that led to her bedroom, trailing off into silence once he had walked in and shut the door.

The guards looked at each other. "Háma?" one of them questioned. The head guard thought for a few seconds, and then replied,

"About fifteen minutes to catch them all." The others nodded, and the other guard, Ceorl, spoke.

"Théodred's record of five minutes has yet to be bested." The other guards murmured their agreement, and quickly resumed their composed faces.

* * *

"But I don't want to go to sleep!" Gúthwyn protested in her room as she changed into her nightgown. Turning to face her uncle, who sat on the bed, she put on the most adorable, pleading puppy-dog face. However, Théoden would not be swayed.

"It is past your bedtime, Gúthwyn," he replied, waiting for her to finish buttoning up the front of her sleepwear. His niece refused to listen, and she continued the face.

"Please?" she begged, allowing a tear to form in the corner of her eye.

"No," Théoden answered firmly. "Come now, I will tuck you in." Scowling in annoyance and wiping the 'tear' from her cheek, the five-year-old walked over to her bed. Stepping on a small stool, she used the extra height to her advantage and clambered onto the top so she was sitting on her comforter. Théoden pulled back the sheets and Gúthwyn unwillingly crawled underneath them, leaning back against the pillows.

"Can you tell me a story?" she inquired, still trying to stay up later.

"I am sorry Gúthwyn, but your bedtime has long gone by," Théoden answered. Gúthwyn sighed. "Goodnight," Théoden said, leaning down and kissing her.

"Goodnight," she replied, pulling the comforter up to her chin. Smiling at his niece, the king picked up the candle that sat on her night table, the only source of light in her room except for the moon, whose rays pierced through the window and lit areas of the floor.

After checking to make sure Gúthwyn was comfortable, Théoden blew out the candle and strode out of the room, softly closing the door behind him. Another day had gone by.

* * *

A sleepy Gúthwyn woke up the next day to find the sun streaming in through her window. She gave a huge yawn, arching her back and stretching her arms. A couple of her bones cracked and she smiled.

Somewhat more awake than she had been a few seconds ago, she sat up and threw the covers off of her. She dangled her legs over the side of the bed for a few seconds, allowing her bare feet to get cool, and then slid down until her foot found purchase on her stool. Once she stood with both feet on it, she jumped off, landing with a slight wobble. Frowning, she stepped back onto the stool and repeated the jump until she landed without moving. Once satisfied, she went to her drawers and quickly pulled out a dress to wear.

She hated dresses, just like Éowyn. They were stuffy, itchy, and all-around uncomfortable, yet since she was young and a girl she had to wear them all the time. Théoden had confiscated her one pair of breeches, after he found out that Éomer had let her use a pair of his from when he was Gúthwyn's age, and now she wore only dresses.

Gúthwyn slipped out of her nightgown and into the green dress, grimacing when she had put it on and taken a look at herself in the mirror. How she loathed wearing these gowns. Making a face at the dress, she walked back to her bed and got onto the floor. Underneath the bed frame were several pairs of shoes and slippers. Her hand went under the dust ruffle and groped around for a few seconds, pulling out the first pair her hand latched onto: Blue slippers. The outfit did not match, but she could not care less about that detail as she opened the door and raced out of her bedroom without brushing her hair. If she was lucky, she would be able to catch Éowyn, Éomer, or Théodred before they finished their breakfast. Théoden no doubt would be sitting on his throne and discussing politics or something equally boring (in her mind, at least) with one of his advisors.

Only Éomer was sitting at their usual table, and Gúthwyn bounded over to him and climbed up onto the bench to sit next to him. Éomer grinned at the sight of her hair, which was a mess and falling around her shoulders in an uneven way.

"Hello!" she greeted him. Éomer nodded in response—he had just taken a bite of his toast and was still chewing it. Swallowing, he was about to speak when Brytta approached their table. She smiled at Gúthwyn and asked,

"Would you like some toast too?" Gúthwyn nodded.

"Yes, please," she replied.

"I shall be right back," Brytta promised, turning around and heading back into the kitchen. Éomer cleared his throat and started to begin again.

"Éowyn and Théodred are at the stables," he said. "I will be joining them. Do you want to go with me?"

"I want to go outside and play," she answered, and by that she referred to the countless hours they had spent with the other children of Edoras. "Can you go with me?" Éomer hesitated. He had been looking forward to grooming his horse, yet he could not resist the innocent, pleading eyes that were now turned his way.

"All right," he sighed. "I will accompany you." A brilliant smile spread across Gúthwyn's face as she hugged her brother.

"Thank you!" she cried.

"Your welcome," Éomer answered. At that moment Brytta came and put a plate down in front of Gúthwyn with two slices of toast resting on it. A cup of milk quickly followed. Éomer looked at them disinterestedly and turned around to gaze at the many paintings on the walls, waiting for her to finish.

After a minute, he turned back just in time to see Gúthwyn place her napkin on an empty plate.

"Can we go now?" she asked.

"Yes," Éomer replied. Then, to Gúthwyn's pleasure, he did not stack the plates up in perfect order like her cousin had insisted on doing. "Let us go," he spoke, rising from the table. Gúthwyn hopped off the bench after him and ran to catch up with her older brother.

They had neared the entrance when the doors opened and Théodred came through, stopping when he saw his cousins.

"Where are you going?" he questioned.

"I am taking Gúthwyn outside to play with the children," Éomer informed him. Although the thirteen-year-old missed it, Théodred's face paled slightly.

"Éomer, if you wish, I will take her down the street and you can see to your horse," he offered, guessing that his cousin would rather have been elsewhere at the moment. Éomer smiled. _Thank you_, he mouthed at his older cousin. Théodred grinned, winking at him before taking Gúthwyn's hand. "Come now," he said. Gúthwyn barely noticed the change in her companions, so anxious was she to go outside.

And so it was that when they walked out of Meduseld, Éomer turned left to go towards the stables, and Gúthwyn and Théodred continued to go straight. Once they entered the village that lay at the foot of Meduseld Théodred spotted an elderly woman struggling to carry two buckets full of water towards her home.

"Gúthwyn, be careful. I am going to help this woman with her chores," the prince told the young girl. Gúthwyn nodded once, and Théodred began walking towards the female. The five-year-old made her way through the crowds, until she came into an area where there were fewer people. The reason for this became apparent when she saw the wrestling boys. Her eyes hardened and narrowed and she clenched her fists at her sides. She would show them! Immediately she spotted the oldest of the boys who was waiting for a turn to fight with someone. He could not have been more than eight years old.

Making up her mind, Gúthwyn strode over towards him. When he took notice of her, the boy asked,

"What do you want?"

"I want to wrestle with you," she responded. The boy began to laugh as the others stopped what they were doing to watch.

"You!" he gasped. "You are too young! You cannot fight with us!" Gúthwyn looked around the group of boys, her gaze resting on a small boy who was sucking his thumb.

"What about him?" she inquired, pointing at him. "I would guess that he is younger than me, yet you let him join." Instantly the boy's argument changed tactics.

"Besides, you are a girl!" he scoffed, gathering a laugh from the other boys. Gúthwyn's face grew red and furious until she had forgotten what Théodred had taught her about using her skills wisely.

"How's _this_ for a girl?" she demanded, raising her fist and slamming him in the stomach. The boy gasped in pain, bending over and clutching his abdomen as Gúthwyn watched triumphantly and the others murmured in surprise.

Then, with a roar of rage, the boy straightened and threw a punch at her. Recalling the most difficult move she had learned, Gúthwyn stepped out of the way and came back in when his fist was past her, grabbing it and using his momentum to her advantage as she flipped him over her shoulder.

* * *

When Théodred had finished helping the woman, he went in search of his cousin. He was nearing the end of the street and starting to get worried when he heard a commotion go up in the crowd a couple of yards ahead of him. Making his way past the people, he came to a clearing. When his eyes saw the unfolding scene before him, he moaned.

His younger cousin stood over a boy who was lying on the ground. As he watched, she reached down and punched his nose, eliciting a sickening _crack_. The boy moaned and curled himself up into a ball, covering his face with his hands.

"Gúthwyn!" Théodred cried. "What are you doing?" When the others heard his voice, they scattered in fear until the only ones left were Gúthwyn, the boy, and Théodred.

Gúthwyn looked up guiltily. Théodred strode over to her and moved her away from the boy, bending down to check on him. The eight-year-old boy's nose was broken, a steady stream of blood oozing out of it and down his face. His eyes were glazed and Théodred saw that he was losing his hold on consciousness. Picking him up, Théodred turned towards Gúthwyn.

"What did I tell you about using what I had taught you?" he demanded, frowning down at his younger cousin.

"I-I'm sor-sorry, Théodred, b-but he wasn't going to l-let me p-p-play with th-them," Gúthwyn stuttered.

"That makes no difference," Théodred replied. "You should not have struck him. Now we need to get this boy to his home." He looked at the boy and saw that he was still awake. "What is your name, young one, and where do you live?" he questioned.

"My… name is Tun…" the boy answered faintly. "I live in… that house… over there." He pointed at a small dwelling shortly down the road from them. The gesture seemed to sap much of his remaining strength and he closed his eyes, becoming limp in Théodred's arms.

"When we get there, Gúthwyn," Théodred spoke, "you will apologize to his guardian." Gúthwyn looked panicked and she opened her mouth to speak but Théodred cut her off. "I do not want to hear any protests. What you did was wrong and I am sure that whoever he is living with will want to know what has happened to him." As he talked, he began walking down the road towards Tun's home, Gúthwyn following him dutifully.

When they got to the house, Théodred knocked on the wooden door. He heard soft footsteps approach the entrance and a second later the door opened a crack and a woman's head peered out.

"Prince Théodred!" she gasped, pulling the door open the rest of the way. "Why have you come to vis—" she stopped as she saw whom Théodred was carrying in his arms. "Tun!" she cried. "What has happened to him?" she asked, frightened for the boy's safety.

"Gúthwyn will tell you," Théodred replied. "Gúthwyn?" Now the five-year-old found herself at the center of attention. Taking a deep breath she began speaking rapidly.

"I wanted to wrestle with him but he wouldn't let me because I'm a girl and so I punched him and then he tried to punch me and then I flipped him onto the ground and then I punched him and broke his nose and I'm really sorry and I won't do it again I promise!" she finished. The woman's face grew angry; Gúthwyn thought it was directed at her, and she grabbed Théodred's leg.

"I do not know how many times I have told my son to stop wrestling with the boys! They are all younger than he is, and they constantly go home bleeding or carrying new bruises. Up until now he has not gotten a scratch. I told him that one day he would get some of his own back but he never listened!" The woman paused, and Théodred held Tun out to her. Taking the sleeping boy she blushed and hurriedly curtsied. "My apologies, Prince Théodred, for not having greeted you properly," she murmured as she rose.

"That is all right," Théodred responded. "It is not important."

"You are most kind," she answered.

"Thank you. Gúthwyn and I must be off now. If there is anything we can do for your son, just let us know," the prince replied.

"I will be all right," Tun's mother said. "Thank you for offering. Good day."

"And you, my lady," Théodred spoke. "Farewell."

"Goodbye," Gúthwyn whispered, following her cousin out the door with one last look at Tun.

Once Théodred shut the door behind them he turned to Gúthwyn.

"You are lucky that she was not angry with you," he told her. "Your uncle would have been most displeased. But this incident is between you, Tun, his mother, and me, agreed? My father does not need to know about it."

"Agreed," Gúthwyn repeated, relief washing over her face as she grasped Théodred's hand. They walked back towards Meduseld in silence, Théodred mulling over his cousin's recent display of what she had learned from him. Yes, she definitely had potential. Théodred made a silent vow as they started up the hill to continue training her until she was old enough to learn how to use a sword.

And train her he did, and under Théodred's wing Gúthwyn grew stronger and better at the art of combat everyday. Anyone who looked upon her face saw an immense joy in her eyes, especially after Éomer had taught her how to properly ride a horse and she got one of her own—a mare she named Heorot. Horses were held in high esteem in Rohan, and nearly every day after her lesson with Théodred she would ride with her siblings over the grasslands near Edoras.

Later she would remember those years as some of the most joyous days of her life. But on her twelfth birthday, that happiness would end.


	2. Happy Birthday I

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter One:**

Some of you may be wondering later on about my inclusion of horses. You will notice that all of Gúthwyn's family has the same animal that they rode in _The Lord of the Rings_. However, I researched it online, and the average lifespan of a horse is said to be twenty-five to thirty years, or somewhere in that area, so I decided that rather than go through the trouble of constructing Rohirric horse names, I would rather keep the ones that were mentioned in _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The hunter (which will be appearing later in this story) is technically mine, but the idea came from Cassia and Siobhan's _Priceless Treasures_ in the Mellon Chronicles series. I am well aware of the fact that I could never hope to compete with them and I hope the hunter in my story isn't a rip-off of the one in Priceless Treasures. As before, I remind you that I do not know much about fighting (swords, bows, 'street smarts', etc) so there may be some things that are incorrect. Once again, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator, except for the rare few that come from _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_.

**Chapter One**

Gúthwyn hopped out of her bed with more energy than a rowdy foal. Today was her twelfth birthday, the day that she would be taught how to wield a sword. Ever since Éowyn had started learning Gúthwyn had looked forward to this day, and it was here at last.

Walking towards her dresser, she pulled out the one pair of leggings that Théoden had finally allowed her to keep, along with a matching tunic and a pair of boots. From the top of her bureau she took a comb and quickly ran it through her hair, tying it back in a ponytail when she was done.

Now she was ready for the day. Running out of her room she came into the great hall, where the rest of her family was already congregated at the largest table. When they saw her, they burst into a Rohirric birthday song. The words entered Gúthwyn's ears and flowed through her head, causing her mouth to form a smile. Her grin was even larger when they had finished.

"Happy birthday!" Éowyn cried as she stood, running up to Gúthwyn and giving her a hug.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, gladly returning the embrace. When they parted, Éomer came towards her and picked her up, his strong arms whirling her around in a circle. When he put her down she was laughing.

"Soon I will not be able to do that," Éomer spoke, only making her laugh harder.

"Happy birthday, little cousin," Théodred said affectionately, approaching Gúthwyn and tousling her hair.

"Many thanks," Gúthwyn answered. Last of all, Théoden King came to her, and he held his hands behind his back.

"You grow so fast," he said. "Now that you are old enough to begin to learn the ways of the sword, you deserve to have your own." And when he brought his hands in front of him, Gúthwyn saw the hilt of a sword protruding from a leather sheathe. Her eyes grew wide and for a moment she stood, speechless. Then Théoden presented it to her, and she received it as tears came to the corners of her eyes. Without a word she drew the sword from its encasing, gasping in awe as the blade glittered in front of her eyes. Her hand clenched the hilt, pausing on the two horse heads that joined the blade to the handgrip, and her fingers proceeded to run up and down the surface of the metal, finally coming to rest on the point.

"It is beautiful," she murmured, sliding it gently back into the sheathe.

"What will you call your sword?" Théoden questioned. Gúthwyn though for a moment, and then she looked up and replied,

"Framwine."

"So be it," Théoden spoke, smiling at the name.

"Thank you so much!" Gúthwyn cried as she threw her arms around him, making sure the sword did not get in the way.

"Your welcome," Théoden responded, returning the hug with love. "Let us hope that it will soon be handled by lethal hands."

When the king and his niece had parted, Éowyn approached her sister again. Gúthwyn saw that Éowyn's necklace, a delicate golden chain inlaid with three sapphires, had not been tucked in her shirt like it normally was, and displayed itself proudly on her neck. She had no time to wonder about this, though, for Éowyn began to speak.

"You noticed my necklace." It was a statement, not a question.

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered.

"Our mother gave it to me right before she… passed away." Here Éowyn's voice weakened for a split second before strengthening again. Théodwyn's death had been hard for Éowyn and Éomer, who were then seven and eleven. Gúthwyn, who had been three at the time, remembered nothing of her mother except for long, golden hair and warm laughter.

"I remember you saying something along those lines," Gúthwyn said, wondering where this was leading.

"It originally belonged to Morwen of Lossarnach, our grandmother, as you know. She brought it from Gondor, and passed it down to her youngest daughter, along with an identical copy. Mother gave to me the second, to give to you when the time was right. I was unable to decide until I learned that you would begin using a sword on your twelfth birthday. And this is the day I have chosen to give to you. Forgive me if it seems too late to relinquish it." And with those words Gúthwyn took out of her pocket a small drawstring purse and handed it to Gúthwyn.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn whispered. Without another word the two sisters embraced, and the others clearly saw the bond that had grown between them. In a short while they separated, and Gúthwyn drew out of the purse a necklace equal to that of Éowyn's. Slowly, she drew it around her neck and fastened the clasp. When she was done she lowered her hands.

"It looks wonderful on you," Théoden complimented her.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn answered, smiling as she did so.

"Now let us eat!" Théoden announced. "After that Théodred and I will finish some preparations, and then we will be off."

About an hour later Gúthwyn and her family were galloping across the plains near Edoras, heading for a secluded area near the River Snowbourn where Gúthwyn would begin her training. Théoden was at the head of them, riding at ease upon his beautiful white horse Snowmane. Théodred was slightly behind the king upon Brego, keeping pace with his younger cousins. Éomer rode his horse Firefoot, Éowyn was seated upon Windfola, and Gúthwyn was easily managing the young Gweddyn.

The ride was less than half an hour, a few minutes of which were spent fording the river. At last they reached their destination: a small, yet thick ring of trees thirty yards away from the edge of the water. A rock large enough for two people to sit upon was just inside the unnatural formation, yet still left a space large enough for what they were to do that day.

Coming towards the ring, the family dismounted and tied their horses to the outside trees so they had plenty of grazing room. After removing what they would need for the day from the saddlebags, they came into the grove and placed their things on the rock, which Éomer and Éowyn also sat upon. They would be watching as Théoden and Théodred taught Gúthwyn, occasionally giving out pointers or corrections.

As she stood before her older cousin and uncle, holding the wooden practice sword that she was to be using that day, Gúthwyn made a mental note to remember absolutely every detail of this day so she could tell Tun about her experience when she got back.

Gúthwyn and Tun had become fast friends shortly after Gúthwyn had gone to his house one day at the urging of Théodred to apologize. Tun had invited her to wrestle with the boys the next day and soon Gúthwyn was spending all of her spare time with him. He knew all that went on in her life, and it was the same for her. Yes, she would definitely have to tell Tun everything.

The first thing Théodred and Théoden showed her was how to correctly hold a sword. They were through with that in less than half a minute, as Gúthwyn had watched every one of Éowyn's lessons and knew much about the basics. From there the primary jabs and blocks were learned, and after that the footwork.

By the time Gúthwyn had mastered those skills, it was time for a lunch of bread, cheese, and apples. She would be learning some more difficult forms of parrying and footing next. For that Éomer and Théodred would be instructing her, as Théoden claimed that he tired easily in his age. However, it was evident that he wanted to watch his protégé and see for himself areas that needed improvement.

"Are you ready?" Théodred inquired as Gúthwyn finished her meal.

"Yes," she answered, eager to learn more. Now Éowyn and Théoden were seated on the rock, observing Théodred and Éomer as they taught Gúthwyn, who was having some difficulties with the new forms. But the two men were excellent teachers, and soon Gúthwyn was past all obstacles. It was lucky for her that she was a fast learner.

All too soon for Gúthwyn, Théoden announced that they had best leave before the sky turned dark, and the family began to get ready to return to Edoras. Packing their things, they walked outside of the ring to their horses and began untying them.

"Did you have fun?" Théodred questioned Gúthwyn as he attached the bag of leftover food to Brego's saddle.

"Yes!" Gúthwyn exclaimed. "This is the best day of my life!" Éowyn and Éomer chuckled when they heard that. They had both said the exact same thing after their first sword-fighting lesson.

Théoden stood apart from the others, watching them carefully as he stroked the mane of his horse. Something seemed a bit off- almost as if they were being watched… Théoden removed his gaze from his family and casually walked towards the trees, with the excuse of undoing the rope that held his horse to one. He was the last one to do so; the others were placing the supplies on their horses.

Seeing nothing suspicious, Théoden sighed in relief and turned back to Snowmane, removing the rope and placing it in a saddlebag. _It must be my imagination_, he decided.

At that moment a shriek rose up in the air. Whirling around, Théoden saw Éowyn sink to the ground with an arrow protruding out of her shoulder.

"Éowyn!" he cried, rushing over to her. Bending down he quickly examined her. The arrow wound was not life threatening, but Éowyn had become unconscious. Théoden's eyebrows knit together in confusion. He had never seen an arrow to the shoulder work that swiftly.

"Is she all right?" Gúthwyn asked as she fought to overcome the sobs threatening to wrack her body. Théodred placed a comforting arm around her shoulders and slightly moved so that he was shielding her from any more arrows that might come their way.

"As far as I can tell," Théoden answered grimly. "Did anyone see where that arrow came from?"

"It came from the trees…" Éomer pointed. His look quickly turned to one of horror. "Uncle, watch out!" he cried, reaching towards Théoden and shoving him out of the path of another projectile. In turn, however, he received the arrow, and fell to the ground as if dead.

"Éomer!" Gúthwyn screamed. Pulling free of Théodred, she raced over to her brother as Théoden regained his footing.

"Who is it that dares to assault my family?" he yelled. "Show yourself!"

* * *

In the grove that the Rohirrim had just left, a man chuckled softly. Wrapped in a black cloak with a hood that covered his dark hair, he was nearly invisible under the growing shadows of the trees. The horse that he sat upon was silent. The man had been watching this family for a long time now, having seen them as he crept through the plains, searching for a meal that was now long forgotten. A birdcall escaping from his lips had brought his horse trotting quietly towards him- a signal that had long been used between the two.

In his hands the human carried a bow. A quiver on his back was full of arrows. Every one of them had their tips dipped in poison- enough to make the victim unconscious within seconds. At his side a sword hung in its sheathe, ready to be pulled out at any moment.

_Perfect_, he thought as he looked at his target. _My employer will be pleased. A pity I cannot get the other two- but there is not enough space on my horse._ He lifted his bow up again and fitted it with an arrow, ready to aim again. With a wicked grin he released the string and with a nudge sent his horse trotting forward.

After Théoden had stated his challenge, what was left of the family looked into the trees. But none of them saw the projectile coming towards its victim until it was too late.

"Gúthwyn!" Théodred cried as the arrow pierced the girl's shoulder. His cousin's eyes rolled into the back of her head as she dropped to the ground and lay there, motionless.

At that moment a horse galloped out from behind the cover of the trees. The rider upon it was not holding the reins but the horse seemed to know where to go as it ran towards Gúthwyn, stepping over Éowyn and Éomer. When it stopped less than a foot away from Gúthwyn, the rider lifted up his bow and pointed it at her, looking up at Théoden and Théodred who were standing five yards away.

"Keep your swords in their sheathes," he warned. "Or I will shoot her again and thus end her life." He nodded down at Gúthwyn.

"What do you want from me? I have nothing of value to you!" Théoden cried, hoping that the attacker was unaware of his status.

"I want her," the man gestured towards Gúthwyn. He smiled as all color drained from the two men's faces. Looking at Théoden, he continued. "If you would be so kind, _my lord_, as to hand her over, I will go without any further trouble."

"Never!' Théoden yelled, starting towards Gúthwyn. The mysterious rider pulled harder on his bowstring.

"Stop where you are or she is dead!" the hunter said. Quickly Théoden came to a halt. "Remove your swords." Hesitatingly Théoden and Théodred complied. "And I want all further weapons removed from your possession. If they are not all gone in five seconds I will kill her." Quickly the two removed the rest of their arms, which included several knives hidden in various places. "Good. Now I want you-" the hunter gestured towards Théoden, "to come towards me and pick up this lovely girl below me."

As Théodred watched, helpless, Théoden slowly walked towards Gúthwyn, kneeling down by her side.

"Gúthwyn?" he whispered, but to no avail. His niece did not return to consciousness and her body was still lifeless as Théoden lifted her up and faced the man.

"Gúthwyn… what a pretty name," the hunter smirked. "Well done. Now hand her over."

"I cannot," Théoden answered, holding Gúthwyn closer. "It is inhuman. How can you do this?"

"You must not have understood me. I said that you are to give her to me." The hunter sighed. He was getting tired of this. "Now!" he demanded. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the other boy moving towards his bow. "Do not move!" he yelled. Théodred froze where he stood. The hunter then turned his attention back to the king. "You have had enough time. Give her to me now!"

"I hate you," Théoden spat. "Curse you and all of your descendants!"

"Give me the girl," the hunter replied, waving away the accusations with a flick of his hand. Théoden's shoulders sagged, and those few seconds that it took him to place Gúthwyn on the saddle in front of the hunter placed many years on his shoulders.

"I hate you," Théoden repeated. "I will kill you!"

"And how do you plan on performing that task?" the hunter inquired. "If that boy moves towards a weapon again, he gets shot. You have no sword on you either. And if you think you are going to mount your horse when I am gone and ride after me and thus win this lady back, you are sorely mistaken. I have saved a couple of arrows just for this moment." Théoden looked at the man's quiver, puzzled. It was nearly full. "Oh, no, not these," the hunter answered the king's unspoken question. "These." Withdrawing five arrows from inside his cloak, he showed them to Théoden, who grew even more confused. The tip had no poison on it- in fact, it was just a regular arrow. "I knew you would like them," the hunter smiled. He backed up his horse a couple of paces, and without warning fitted one of those missiles to his bow and shot it.

Behind Théodred, the prince's horse Brego fell to the ground, whining in agony with an arrow sticking out of his calf. Théoden then understood the mind of this hunter.

"No…" he whispered. "You would not…"

"Of course I would," the hunter responded. Four more times he shot, until all of the horses were felled. Upon seeing Théoden's stricken look and purposely misinterpreting it, the hunter said, "Do not worry, they will be fully healed soon, if you have the right supplies. But by then I am afraid that you will have lost valuable time in finding Gúthwyn."

"How could you?" the king spoke, stumbling on the words in his fury and horror.

"It is my job," the hunter replied. "Now, I believe it is time to say farewell. I do hope your horses get well soon!" And with that, he turned his steed around and urged him to go forward.

"Théodred, shoot him!" Théoden yelled. As swift as he might, Théodred dove for his bow and neatly fitted an arrow to it. Standing up equally fast he aimed it at the receding hunter and fired it, knowing that if the rider were to be thrown off his horse would stop. The arrow shot through the air and landed, piercing the man's arm.

However, to father and son's astonishment, the man did not fall off his horse. In fact, not a cry escaped his lips. Théodred repeated his action and this time missed the target altogether, as the hunter knew what to expect and was now making short, random curves to avoid the arrow coming at him. He did not even seem to lose speed as he grew smaller and smaller, fading to nothing but a dot on the horizon and then disappearing.

"No…" Théoden whispered. His body shook with utter shock, unwilling to move anywhere but downwards. "NO!" he yelled as he sunk to his knees. "Gúthwyn!"

Théodred also felt numb. As tears slid down his face he realized that he had failed his cousin. If he had thought to aim for the neck instead of the body, Gúthwyn would be with them now. The fact that he did not and could not stop her capture tore at him until the anguish was too much to bear silently.

"Father…" he choked out. "I am so sorry. I was not thinking. I could not… I did not save her." Théodred's apology was meager, far from eloquently spoken, and he knew it. Sobs overtook him and he followed his father, sinking to the ground. Burying his face in his hands, he wept without paying heed to his surroundings. Gúthwyn was gone. He had failed.


	3. Worthless

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Two:**

The way that the hunter is traveling to his destination I have tried to make as correct as possible. To do this, I am using a book called _The Atlas of Middle-earth_ (the revised edition). For the time to reach this place (which I will not reveal in these notes!) I referred to _The Two Towers_. Once again, the concept of the hunter and that confrontation scene between him and Théoden is based off of Cassia and Siobhan's _Priceless Treasures_. As I have said I am well aware of the fact that they easily best me in terms of writing. Remember that my knowledge of fighting is limited. As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as Gúthwyn's sword Glamthaus, 'lethal'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Also, I am no nurse or doctor or expert in Middle-earth healing techniques. I have tried my best but if there is something amiss then please correct me.

**Chapter Two**

As night fell across the plains of Rohan the hunter began to slow his horse, looking for a place to spend the night. He had ridden over an hour with the boy's arrow in his arm, and he knew that unless he wanted to risk infection he had better take the projectile out. And then there was the girl. Gúthwyn was still asleep, her head resting limply against his shoulder. Occasionally she would moan deliriously, but a slap to the face quieted her for a few minutes.

At last the hunter found a small group of boulders. Pulling on the reins, he slowed his horse down to a stop.

"Time for a rest," he whispered to the mare as he dismounted neatly. Before the girl could fall over he grabbed her and roughly pulled her corpse off of the horse, quickly checking her shoulder for signs of infection. There were none, the hunter saw to his relief. The last thing he needed was another task placed on his already busy hands. He needed to get her to his employer by the end of the week. Then he would be sent out again to take another unfortunate victim.

Shifting the body over to one hand, the hunter grabbed the pouch containing his medical supplies from one of the four saddlebags tied to his horse. First he would see to his wound, then that of the girl's. Lowering Gúthwyn to the ground, he sat on one of the rocks and shook out the contents of the sack. It was mostly cloth bandages, but there were some handkerchiefs and a few assorted herbs if he needed extra help in stopping a fast, thick blood flow.

Holding his arm out in front of him, the hunter looked at the arrow. Although it was painful, it would be easy to mend. From the roll, he took a few strips of bandages and placed them by his side. He would be needing them shortly. Then, grasping the arrow and holding his breath, he quickly pushed it through his limb and snapped the barbed tip off. Just as swift, he pulled the remainder of the projectile back through his arm and discarded it. Immediately scarlet liquid came rushing forth, and he rushed to press some cloth against it to stop it. With small difficulty he reached for the rest of the gauze and managed to wrap it tightly around his arm. It was then that he exhaled.

"Now for you," he muttered, looking over at Gúthwyn. Standing up, he walked over to her with his supplies and knelt down by her right shoulder. Grasping the end of the dart that stuck out of the muscle, he roughly performed the removal procedure once more and pressed the bandages down on the wound when the blood poured forth. When he tightened the final knot, she gasped and her hand flew out at the hunter, striking him in the face.

Almost swifter than the eye could follow, the man's fist shot downward, punching the girl in the stomach and causing her to moan and curl in on herself. It came into the hunter's mind that he should gag her in order to have some peace that night. The poison had not yet entered its worst stage. The fever-induced nightmares that it caused left the bravest man screaming at imaginary demons in fright that was terrible to behold. From what the hunter had gathered, it pulled out your worst fears and surrounded you with them; completely enveloping you until it seemed like no light could penetrate the shadows.

With this in mind, the man went back to his horse and took a rag from one of the hanging purses. Coming back to Gúthwyn he lifted her head up and wrapped the material around it, tying the fabric firmly at the base of her skull. Having completed the task, he packed up the medical equipment, returning once again to his horse and placing everything back in the pouch. Turning to another, he pulled out a carrot and, after rummaging a bit more, a slice of dried meat. It was tasteless, but enough.

"Here you are, Gegwyn," he murmured as he fed his mare the carrot. The animal whinnied happily and set about finishing his food. The hunter, glad that his horse was disciplined enough not to run away when he was not tethered to a tree, walked away and sat on a rock to keep watch for the night, pulling his cloak tighter around him to remain warm. He lit no fire, as he did not want to draw the attention of wild beasts that might be roaming the plains. He had attracted no late-night visitors in all the years that he had done his job, and did not wish to put a black mark on his record.

Five feet away from him, Gúthwyn became restless. Soft moans penetrated through the gag and her breathing became faster. The man smiled. She was in for a rough night.

_The fog swirled around Gúthwyn, blocking her view and seeming to suffocate her. Sometimes it was as if the clouds would come together and form a shape resembling a horse, but always it would fall and disappear. Breathing was becoming harder and harder as the clouds pressed in on her._

"_Help!" she called. "Help me!" As if to answer her plea, Éowyn appeared in front of her, beckoning to her younger sister to follow before turning away and disappearing into the mists. "Éowyn, wait!" Gúthwyn called. But her sister did not return, and Gúthwyn started after her. It was a hard task, although knowing where to go was not a problem: her feet seemed to know where to place themselves. No, it was the act of forging a path through the heavy fog, which forced her back two steps for every three she took._

_At last she came to a clearing- here, no mist swirled. Three shadows were in the center of it. Two were involved in a deadly fight, their swords making an awful clash of metal on metal as they met one another's blade with equal skill. The other was on the ground, lying in what looked to be a pool of their own blood. Gúthwyn couldn't make out who the three were as she stared at their figures._

_Suddenly, a single ray of sun pierced downwards and lit up the area that the four were standing in. Now Gúthwyn could clearly see who they were, and the realization tore through her heart._

"_No…" she whispered. "It cannot be…" Éomer it was who lay on the ground. It now became apparent to Gúthwyn that he was dead. "NO!" she screamed. "ÉOMER!" At the sound of her voice, Éowyn looked up from her struggle with a cloaked man and directly at the youngest sibling. Her gaze was accusing, and the coldness of it ripped right through Gúthwyn's soul._

"_Why were you not here when Éomer fell?" she questioned angrily. "I told you to come! If you had not tarried on your way Éomer would be with us now! His last words were those of hate- and they were directed at you. You, my _dear_ sister, you who failed to come and aid us in our need. I despise you!" A look of wild hatred came into Éowyn's eyes as she spat at her sister._

_Tears formed in Gúthwyn's eyes. "I tried!" she protested. "I was held back… Éowyn, watch out!" The yell came from her lips as she saw the hooded figure behind Éowyn raise his sword. The shieldmaiden turned to deflect the blow but she was too late. In an instant half of her face was gone and her opponent's sword glistened with blood. Raising it again, the murderer brought it down towards the side and swung it an a deathly arc, gaining more force every second until finally it met Éowyn's neck and separated her head from her body._

_A ghastly scream ripped through the clearing as Éowyn fell. Gúthwyn realized with shock that it came from her own mouth. A cruel laugh was heard shortly after, and Gúthwyn looked with rage upon who she now perceived to be a man. With an angry war cry she raced at the figure. It did not matter that he had a weapon and she carried none. She would kill him with her bare hands._

_She was almost at her goal when the human disappeared. Startled, she ran right over where he would have been before she stopped. Looking all around her, she issued a challenge._

"_Come back here, you coward! You will pay for what you have done to my family!" But there was no answer, and she stood there, panting, with tears sliding down her face. "Come back!" she tried again, but to no avail._

_All of a sudden Gúthwyn was lifted up through the clouds, which seemed to be whispering to her. Transparent figures flew about her, and she realized that they were those of her family: Éomer, Éowyn, Théodred, and Théoden. _

What has happened?_ Gúthwyn wondered, her face full of anguish. _I am sorry for what I have done!_ She tried to reach out to them, but they danced just out of touch. It was then that the whispering got louder._

"_You failed us…" the voices of her family seemed to blend together as one that was twisted and contorted with evil, and those of her siblings became prominent. "We placed our trust in you, and you broke it… we are dead because of you…"_

"_I tried!" she responded. "Please, believe me!" The accusations were only repeated and multiplied until they filled the air. When Gúthwyn placed her hands on her ears and shut her eyes, she felt herself being closed in, and the calls entered her head._

"_You failed us…" they began._

"_Stop it!" she cried. The harsh laughter of the man echoed in her ear again, and the voices took on a new path._

"_You are worthless… nothing but a failure… nobody loves you… least of all us…"_

"_Stop!" she yelled. Like a candle that had just been put out, the calls faded away, and when Gúthwyn looked up, no one was there. Looking down, she realized that she was thousands of feet up in the air. Then the mysterious force holding her up let go, and she plummeted downwards, the distant ground rushing out to meet her. The last thing she heard before she blacked out was an echoing scream mingled with the haunting "you have failed us… you are worthless."_

As Gúthwyn's breathing slowed and her movement stopped, the hunter laughed again. How he enjoyed this cruel form of entertainment. It pleased him to no end.

"Get a good night's sleep," he whispered as he looked at her. "You are going to need the rest for tomorrow." These words were spoken as a wicked grin formed across his face. An evil glint came into his eyes as the roaring laughter escaped the man's lips, filling the plains around him and dancing terribly amongst the grass. "Just wait until you see what I have in store for you, Gúthwyn. Just wait and see."


	4. Dimmed Senses

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Three:  
**The way that the hunter is traveling to his destination I have tried to make as correct as possible. To do this, I am using a book called _The Atlas of Middle-earth_ (the revised edition). For the time to reach this place (which I will not reveal in these notes!) I referred to _The Two Towers_. Once again, the concept of the hunter and that confrontation scene between him and Théoden is based off of Cassia and Siobhan's _Priceless Treasures_. Also borrowed from them is the idea of the rope harness- you will see what I am talking about! Although I believe that I added my own personal touch to it, the concept is still theirs and I am thankful that they have let me use it. As I have said I am well aware of the fact that they easily best me in terms of writing. Remember that my knowledge of fighting is limited. As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as Gúthwyn's sword Framwine, 'lethal'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_.

**Chapter Three**

The morning sun streamed down upon Gúthwyn and struggled to pierce through her eyelids. Groaning, she tried to yawn, but then discovered that a strip of cloth tied around her mouth prevented her from doing so. Panicked, her eyes flew open and looked into the pale blue sky.

_Why am I not in my bed?_ she questioned silently. _Why is this thing around my mouth?_ She reached upwards in an attempt to remove the cloth but was stopped by a sudden scream of protest from her shoulder. Puzzled, she looked at it, and saw that it had been wrapped in bandages.

Suddenly the memories came flooding back to her. She remembered falling to an arrow that had come out of nowhere. All was a blur after that, up until the nightmare that she had had last night. _Dreams are what your subconscious is trying to tell you_, she realized.A wild sense of fear came over her, and she frantically sat up and tore the gag off of her mouth with her good arm. A scream erupted from her lips as she thought of the deaths of Éowyn and Éomer, brought about by the poisoned arrows.

"Be quiet, you filthy girl!" A man's sharp voice, coming from behind Gúthwyn, was punctuated by a blow to her back that flung her forward and knocked the wind out of her. As she lay there on her stomach, gasping for breath, she heard the person mutter to himself, "It has worn off… I will have to give her another dose."

"Where… am… I?" Gúthwyn managed to choke out with a large amount of effort.

"You are with me," came the answer, which alerted Gúthwyn that the man was now further away. Rolling over, she saw a cloaked figure and a horse. The former was removing one of the saddlebags from the latter. When the man turned around, Gúthwyn saw a hard, merciless face staring at her. As he approached her, she found herself backing away. This action made him angry, and he strode forward, picking her up by her shirt and bringing his face down towards hers.

"I will have none of this foolishness on our journey, do you understand me?" he angrily spoke. Frightened out of her wits, Gúthwyn froze and said nothing. "Answer me!" he yelled. When she did nothing to pull herself out of her almost paralyzed state, he slammed her body back onto the ground. "Do you wish for me to make agonized pain your primary feeling?" Pulling a knife out from the bag that he held with his other hand, he brandished it in front of her, waiting for a satisfactory response. It was anything but, however.

In a brave yet unwise action, Gúthwyn brought her leg up and kicked him in the stomach. As he was flung off of her, she tried to gain her footing and make a run for it. She only made it to her knees however, before he grabbed her by the neck and used his weapon to make a large cut down her right cheek. This stopped all of her struggles as she brought her hand up to her face and stared in horror at the blood that she saw when she pulled it away.

"I can see that you are going to be a bit of a problem for me," her attacker whispered. "Every time you misbehave in such a manner you get another scratch. And I will not stop with just your face either, so I would watch your step if I were you. Do you understand me?" Knowing better than to not speak now, Gúthwyn stuttered,

"Y-Yes, I-I understand."

"Good. Now you are going to stay still while I explain what will happen today." The order allowed no room for the previous disobedience. "I grew tired of carrying you on my horse and making sure that you did not fall off. Now it is time for you to pull your own weight." As he talked to her, the hunter removed from the saddlebag a small jar that contained a dark, murky, thick liquid. After unwrapping the cloth that bound her shoulder, he uncorked the bottle, ignoring the awful stench that came along with the action. Seeing Gúthwyn cover her nose in disgust, he smirked as he set the vial aside and reached out towards her shoulder.

Gúthwyn shuddered as his hand touched her body and began unwinding the bandages that covered her arrow wound. Once the gash had been exposed to the cold morning air,

the man reached back towards the phial and dipped his finger into it, smearing a tiny bit of the pasty liquid on his flesh before stretching his finger towards Gúthwyn and rubbing it on the cut.

"This should keep you under control," the hunter spoke as he redid the bandages, not even bothering to get new ones. Placing the cork back onto the jar, he put it back in the saddlebag and withdrew another, more curious item- a long coil of rope that, when unwound, showed a small loop at either end. One, however, was larger, and the rope used to make it had been knotted. The hunter smiled as he gazed upon this simple object, as if recalling a fond memory, Gúthwyn thought.

Picking up his bag, the hunter stood up and bent down again, this time grabbing his captive by her arm and pulling her up with him. As an after-effect of that motion, Gúthwyn's eyes grew glassy and disoriented, but due to the small amount of poison the hunter had applied, she did not lose consciousness.

"Come along now," the hunter said, smiling at her handicapped state as he took hold of her arm and started to walk. Growing dizzier by the second, Gúthwyn realized that her hearing, though greatly dimmed, was one of the more efficient senses. Sight had almost completely disappeared, she realized, but it seemed to take too much energy to panic. She guessed that the hunter must be leading her, for she could barely stand up and she thought that if she were to attempt her movements alone she would fall helplessly to the ground.

The deterioration of her senses was a transformation so swift that by the time Gúthwyn felt herself being stopped she could not see a thing. Only a faint, familiar smell told her that she must be near a horse. She was, in fact, standing right next to one, although she did not know it.

Next to her, the hunter uncoiled the length of rope, still managing to keep a steadying hand on Gúthwyn's arm. Pushing the small loop aside, he grabbed the larger, knotted circle. Throwing it around the girl's neck, he adjusted the rope to be tight enough so that it would not slip off, but would not strangle his catch either. That would lead to unhappy consequences with his employer.

Cautiously pulling his hand away from Gúthwyn, he watched apprehensively to make sure that she did not sway and collapse from the sudden lack of support as easily as a poorly secured tent facing a tremendous, furious wind. To his relief and convenience, she did not. Hoping that she would stay that way, he leaned closer and whispered into her ear,

"Run."

Dimly the word came into Gúthwyn's ear. _Run? Run where?_ And more importantly, _how?_ She did not know how she could be expected to even move in this state of being. Confusion enveloped her and she did not move, wondering if she had heard the wrong thing.

Seeing this, the hunter chuckled and walked back to his horse. Mounting the beast swiftly and with ease, he tightened his grip on the other, smaller loop and tugged on it a bit. The rope uncoiled some more, but there was still a ways to go until it reached Gúthwyn's neck with a straightened cord in between the two ends. The total length was about thirty feet.

Nudging Gegwyn, the hunter set his horse trotting for a few seconds, and then gradually this brisk walk was hastened into a canter. Looking back, the hunter saw the twine swiftly straightening out. Any second now Gúthwyn would realize the meaning of his words. Returning his attention to the plains ahead, he spurred the horse on until it was moving at a fast canter.

The scent of the horse faded away, and as Gúthwyn heard an accompanying sound of hooves, she wondered what was happening. But she was not puzzled for long, and it became terrifyingly clear as she felt a sharp yank around her neck and she was roughly pulled forward to follow the thundering steps of the animal. Her numb legs regained feeling, and she found, to her immense surprise, that she could move, blindly stumbling her way in the direction of the merciless tug.

_I am being herded, like nothing more than a wild, uncouth animal_, she slowly realized. In her weakened state, her breathing was quickly becoming short and fast, a condition appearing more quickly than it did when she played a game of tag with her siblings. She could not see the ground before her, and she was barely able to keep up with the horse. Dizziness swelled up inside of her, and, had anyone asked her, she would have sworn that the earth was tilted and spinning below her feet.

As the day wore on and passed into mid-afternoon, Gúthwyn could feel the sun burning on her back relentlessly. She was thirsty now, so much that it was dangerously close to the extent of dehydration. Sweat was pouring down her body, and yet the horse (with the strange man on it, she presumed) showed no signs of stopping its endless run. A furious hunger burned inside of her. She could not think of how she had managed to survive thus far, and guessed that she could not hold out much longer.

_Éomer…_ she thought deliriously. _I need you… come back from up there and rescue me!_ No aid came though, and she resigned herself to the fact that Éomer despised her now, because of her part in his death. Meanwhile, the running continued, and Gúthwyn reflected that it would probably never stop. Her legs felt like lead and her mouth was as dry as dust, making it increasingly difficult to swallow.

All of a sudden she tripped over a rock and fell face-first on the ground. The same forward motion did not fail, despite her collapse, and she was dragged over grass and dirt. For fear of hitting her head on another stone, she frantically struggled to firmly place her hands on the hard earth in an effort to raise herself up again. The twine was choking her with each effort, but she could spare no hand to yank it away from her flesh. After repeated and futile attempts, she gave up and curled into a ball, placing her arms protectively around her head and trying to ignore the battering assault on her body.

As the hunter felt the tug on the rope strengthen, he quickly turned his head around and saw the helpless body of his captive being pulled along, making no move to rise. Furious, he stopped the horse and dismounted, walking over to where the pathetic excuse of a human being lay.

"Get up," he demanded shortly. He was not in a good mood. There still remained a few hours until night completely enveloped the plains, and he had every intention of riding for all of those minutes without rest. He had only the rest of the week to arrive at his destination, and with the first day behind him and the second dragging on, they still had many leagues to cover.

When his charge failed to move, his temper rose. "I said, get up!" he yelled, swinging his foot and kicking her back with frustrated anger. Gúthwyn's weak moans of protest only served to fuel his irritation, and when she still would not budge, he bent over and grabbed her by the rope circling her neck. He caught a glimpse of fresh, dark bruises forming slowly before shaking her in a fit of rage. "You will do as I told you, do you understand?" he growled between clenched teeth. "I thought we had already discussed this." As he spoke, he whipped out his faithful dagger.

Glittering metal flashed before her unfocused, nearly blind eyes as Gúthwyn tried to make sense of the jumbled, confusing words that the man spoke to her. Seeing what the shining object was, her eyes widened and her mouth struggled to get words out of her mouth.

"No… please…" she managed to gasp. "I… will be… good… I promise…" The sentence only made her state seem more laughable to her persecutor, who wickedly grinned as he placed the knife on her cheek and carved another line. Sharp, stinging, pain signals entered her brain and she held her breath against the sensation.

The man's smile widened and Gúthwyn could faintly hear him laughing. "Now perhaps you will behave better," he speculated, punctuating his remark by jolting the girl he held. Once she had put the pieces of his message together in her head, Gúthwyn nodded, hoping that she was presenting him with the right response. It apparently must have been, for he let go of her with a parting shot of, "I would take care to make sure that we do not have to pause again, filthy girl."

Relieved to be back on her feet, Gúthwyn slowly rubbed her aching neck. It hurt to the touch, and the rest of her body was in no better condition. The only saving grace at the time was that the scorching sun had started its descent and was not as hot as it had been before. But other than that, there seemed to be no redemption for this pit of hell she was living in, not even one bit of water to quench her ravenous thirst.

Breaking her disordered thoughts, the torment began again as the horse resumed its brisk pace, and she was forced to run along behind the beast or face more of the stranger's fury. As the effects of the poison gradually began to wear off at day's end, she found herself wondering where they were headed. She did not recall asking him, but then again, she could not remember much of the time she had spent with this man, and indeed, the morning and much of the afternoon already seemed like a hazy blur.

Long past her train of thoughts, the journey continued at the same pace, with no further rest for another spell of time. If any birds flew over the plain that night, they would have wondered at the sight of a skilled horseman leading another person who was tethered up like a beast, but as it was none marked their passing that day.

After a long period of silent riding, the hunter began slowing Gegwyn down, preparing to make camp for the night. To his pleasure, his captive had not suffered him any more trouble, and they had made better time than he had intended. Soon she would be fully daunted by him and under his control.

When the horse stopped, the man nimbly leaped off and landed on the ground, glancing back at Gúthwyn as he did so. Completely exhausted, both physically and mentally, she had collapsed in a heap the second the persistent tug of the rope had ended. She began breathing heavily, gulping in air as fast as possible, but not without harsh, rasping noises being emitted as she did so. As the hunter watched, she pulled herself up on all fours, her head hanging down towards the earth as she retched, throwing up all of what was in her stomach.

Knowing that she was dehydrated, the man took a spare canteen filled with water out of one of the saddlebags Gegwyn carried, removing as an afterthought the jar of poison, and stalked over to Gúthwyn. Gazing upon her in disgust, he took the cap off and placed it in his pocket.

"Drink this," he told her, holding out the jug. Although he did not like to, he had learned the hard way that he was supposed to take care of his captives. Many years ago, when he had taken up this job, one of his charges had died before they had arrived at the place of his employer, and the outcome had not been good for his part. Fingering his back while waiting for Gúthwyn to take the container, he winced as he recalled what had been done to him. The scars were probably still there, he reflected bitterly.

Across from him, the girl took the offering eagerly and brought it to her lips, greedily drinking in the water in an effort to quench her thirst. Swiftly she swallowed the fluid, without pause, for several seconds, before the hunter stopped her.

"Not so fast," he spoke, snatching the canteen away from her. Putting the lid back on, he put it on the ground next to him and held up the vial of the toxic liquid. Uncorking it, he informed her, "It is time for your medicine again."

"No…" Gúthwyn groaned weakly. The water had not only served to lower her level of dehydration—it was helping her regain her senses, namely vision. She could not make out any features on her captor's face, but she could see his general outline much more clearly than before. Her hearing had also become sharper, and she no longer had to think spoken words over in her head before understanding the sentence.

Suddenly she realized why the man had taken away the precious water from her when she drank it too fast; she felt her stomach rising to her throat again. Leaning over the grass once more, she watched as her body fluids spewed across the ground, changing its color to a darker shade.

Using Gúthwyn's temporary distraction, the hunter lunged forward and tore off the bandage wrapped around her wound. It was healing, he could see, for nothing more than a small trickle of blood came forth in response to the sudden exposure. Dipping his fingers in the poison again, he rubbed the generous amount over the cut quickly, for the girl was beginning to struggle. Her movements only increased when she saw what he was doing. However, after grasping her arm tighter, all he had to do was wait a few seconds for the toxin to begin its work.

It did not disappoint him, and soon Gúthwyn was swaying as the result of the blinding dizziness coming over her. Chuckling, the hunter re-wrapped the fabric around her injury, once again neglecting to change the bandages. Pushing her away from him, he returned to Gegwyn and deposited his effects in the saddlebags draped over her body. After tightening the laces on the packs, he sat down with his own canteen and awaited the inevitable pleasure of listening to Gúthwyn's nightmares, keeping a sharp watch on the surrounding plains as he did so.


	5. A Dazed Journey

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Four:**

The way that the hunter is traveling to his destination I have tried to make as correct as possible. To do this, I am using a book called _The Atlas of Middle-earth_ (the revised edition). For the time to reach this place (which I will not reveal in these notes!) I referred to _The Two Towers_. Once again, the concept of the hunter and that confrontation scene between him and Théoden is based off of Cassia and Siobhan's _Priceless Treasures_. Also borrowed from them is the idea of the rope harness, which you have already seen. Although I believe that I added my own personal touch to it, the concept is still theirs and I am thankful that they have let me use it. As I have said I am well aware of the fact that they easily best me in terms of writing. Remember that my knowledge of fighting is limited. As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the hunter's horse, Gegwyn, but unfortunately I don't remember what I put in), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_.

**Chapter Four**

For the rest of the week they journeyed in this manner, Gúthwyn running behind the hunter upon Gegwyn for the whole day, until she would fall upon the ground in a blissful sleep when they stopped and not get up. It was a brutal experience: she had five scratches marring her cheek thus far, and several bruises decorated her neck, from the relentless pull of the harness. She could not even begin to count the leagues she had run, and yet it seemed as if they were never going to see any other human being again.

However, they were in fact very close to their destination, and as the fourth day dawned the hunter thanked the Valar that, according to his calculations, they would arrive there by noon. He was becoming tired of this captive, and longed to have her well being off of his hands. Sometimes he wondered why he still had this job, but, then again, it did pay handsomely. 

In order to receive a higher salary, he had neglected to put the poison in his captive's system, knowing that she would be too out of it to perform whatever would be expected of her until the next day. His employer had strictly ordered that all of his catches were to arrive in close to, if not perfect condition. He knew that he had caused some puzzlement on the girl's part when he abandoned the use of the toxin, but had not bothered to explain the sudden stoppage to her. He suspected that relief would silence her, and right he was.

As the sun rose higher in the sky, Gúthwyn struggled to keep running, knowing nothing of how close she was to the end of this cruel torment. The air rushing into her face had hurt her unseeing eyes, and as a result she kept her head down and did not see a black speck on the horizon looming up before her. As it was, she had lost total track of their surroundings, as not even the tallest of the mountains they traveled beside were visible to her.

It was to her immense surprise when the seemingly perpetual cantering of the horse stopped. As the sun had barely started to warm the top of her head, she did not collapse from exhaustion, but their pace had not let up and she gasped for air, trying to take in as much as she possibly could, still confused about the recent halt. She did not have to wait long, however, until she found out the reason of the stop.

Getting off of Gegwyn, the hunter made his way towards his captive, still holding the end loop of the harness in his hand. He could see their destination clearly, even from a mile away, and they were in the final stretch. However, his employer did not want severely injured humans, and would not appreciate the method that the hunter had used to move across the plains with his catch. And so therefore, the harness had to go.

Gúthwyn looked his way as his footsteps brought him closer to her, and he was pleased to see the fear that swiftly entered them. She had not seen his face that morning, because he had worn his cloak over it, but during the ride it had been flung back by the wind. He knew what she saw now- a sharp, fierce-looking face with smoldering brown eyes that scarcely concealed their everlasting fury. A thin, white scar ran down one side of his head, making him even more savage and brutal.

"We are close to the end of our travels, and have entered the Nan Curunír." The name stirred up a fading memory in Gúthwyn's mind of her lessons in Edoras, and it seemed to her that she had heard the name before. "You are now going to be riding on the horse with me. There will be no questions," he told her shortly as he loosened the knot on the harness and slipped it off of her neck. After wrapping his arm in the twine so as not to drop it, he took hold of the captive to prevent her from escaping. There was a slim to none chance of her being strong enough to attempt this, but with the thought of his payment growing larger in his mind, he was not about to take any chances.

Roughly he dragged her back to Gegwyn, hastening his movements in the anticipation of being done with this chore in mere minutes. Lifting her up, he placed Gúthwyn on the horse and swiftly mounted behind her, pressing his arms firmly around her body to ensure that she would not fall off.

"Now, Gegwyn," he whispered, and at the sound of his voice the smart animal took off, galloping across the ground, not breaking her stride when the grass gave way to a long, thin, well-kept stone road. The black object had graduated from a dot to a small, narrow line and was coming ever closer as the landscape flew by Gegwyn, who seemed to sense also the finish line that lay close ahead.

Neatly tended patches of land began appearing on the horizon, and Gúthwyn could see that they were acres of gardens that had been painstakingly tilled and cared for by multitudes of workers. Stunted, bare trees rose from the ground, in dire need of water and nourishment. Looking closer, Gúthwyn noticed that weeds had begun to grow, creeping out of the ground craftily and hiding amongst the sparse greenery. These grounds were clearly falling into disrepair.

In a minute, the road became edged with a small, continuous fence posts made out of wood and linked together by chains. The stones that had been used to pave it had been laid down skillfully, and no grass could be seen peeking through the miniscule cracks. Two gutters appeared beside them, running with water on either side of the road. Gúthwyn's eyes followed the left stream, watching as rays of sunlight were caught in the gully and transformed into sparkling jewels that decorated the murky surface.

Suddenly, the hunter pulled hard on the right rein, causing the horse to sharply turn and Gúthwyn to look up in surprise as they passed a strangely shaped pillar. It had been carved in the form of a long, slender hand with a northward-pointing finger. Painted white, the structure looked deathly pale, and Gúthwyn thought that it was foreboding a danger that lay ahead. Somehow she knew that they had almost arrived at their destination.

The air became fouler, and a little distance away a rock wall that rose only slightly less than a hundred feet in height appeared. This barrier protected the much taller and resistant work of the ancient Númenoreans- the tower of Orthanc, stronghold of the wizard Saruman the White.

Built long ago, it was so skillfully crafted that some said that the kings of old had not constructed it. Rather, a long time ago, giants had built it out of naught but the bones of the earth. The soaring pinnacle was over five times the wall's stature, crowned at the top by four sharp, pointed spikes seamlessly attached to a circular roof. When he had first laid his eyes on this structure, the hunter had not been able to keep himself from staring in awe.

It was indeed an impressive sight, Gúthwyn thought as she viewed the majestic tower with unhidden wonder. _But why am I being taken here?_ The question entered her head a second later, as she knew from her lessons that within this ring dwelt Saruman, a powerful figure who had always been a friend of Rohan. As ridiculous as it was, she wondered if she was going to be returned to her family (or what was left of it) upon her arrival. Her naïve mind did not know, could not have been expected to know, that years before her birth, rumor of the finding of a great weapon had caused a great many events that had ultimately led to the wizard's betrayal.

The man steered the horse onwards towards the ring, until a wide arch that formed the entrance to a tunnel was visible. Two watchtowers framed it, but they were not nearly as high as the Orthanc. Guarding them were two silent, swarthy men with wild hair, dark features and identical glares in their eyes. They made no move to stop the horse as the hunter rode past them and into the passage. Gúthwyn managed to catch a quick glimpse of a door and some stairs on her left before they came out again into the light and looked upon a horrifying landscape.

There were no trees in sight, nor were there for a long distance until one got to the mist-covered Fangorn Forest. As a matter of fact, there was no vegetation at all, and the grounds surrounding the Orthanc were barren and choked with ash. This smoke rose thickly from fire-lit fissures that dotted the earth, clouding up the sky and making it difficult to breathe. As the heat from the numerous flames was trapped in the hazy atmosphere, it was considerably hotter.

Staring around in amazement and nearly choking from the noxious fumes, Gúthwyn wondered why she had not seen all of this pollution from many leagues away. Only a look upwards showed her that the smoke was not higher than the ring, which cast long shadows upon the already dark ground. Directing her gaze downward, she saw parched and gasping earth that had clearly seen better days.

A movement to her right caught her eye, and as she examined the source closer, she gasped in terror at its cause. Although she would see many in the days to come, she would never forget her first sight of this creature. Massive and brutal-looking, at least five feet tall and thrice that in length, it could not have been mistaken for a dog. It was snarling, its mouth baring huge fangs and dripping with saliva. A ferocious, rabid look lingered in the sinister eyes as it moved its head around, examining its surrounding. It was like a wolf, and yet not so. A hybrid, Gúthwyn guessed, but yet she could not figure out the parenting species.

However, her disgust was short-lived as the horse ran unheedingly past it. A few seconds later, she realized that next to the animal had been an Orc. A sinking feeling rose in her stomach as the thought came to her that Saruman might not have been as loyal as was believed.

At length they neared the Orthanc, and yet the horse showed no signs of slowing down. Gúthwyn was puzzled; even more so when she saw that there was no door- just a sheer, solid wall that had no marks defacing its beauty. However, her doubts were laid to rest when her captor turned the animal eastwards, and, turning her head in that direction, she saw a tall ramp that rose right into the structure.

They went this way for roughly two hundred feet before the hunter pulled on the reins of the horse, stopping it right in front of the ramp. And yet, Gúthwyn saw, it was not a ramp. The entrance to Saruman's fortress could only be gained by a series of steps, all twenty-seven of which were made of the same, indefinable material that formed the tower. On the top of them stood a figure in white.

_Saruman_, Gúthwyn knew as the hunter dismounted. Turning back to the horse, he lifted the girl up off Gegwyn and set her down on the ground before him, tightly gripping her arm. But there was no need to- even if she had run away, there would be no way to escape from this place without being caught. Looking back, she saw more men of the same stature as those on guard patrolling the landscape and knew that it would be impossible.

None too gently, the man guided her up the flight of stairs, drawing ever closer to Saruman. Soon he stood a few steps below the wizard, who looked down at them and waited. He was tall, clothed in what appeared upon first sight to be white robes. But as Gúthwyn looked closer, she saw that they were instead a subtle blend of many colors, woven into the fabric so skillfully that it was hard to tell when one shade ended and another hue would begin. In his hand, he carried a staff that was made to look like the tower he dwelt in, with a small stone set between the four spikes at the top.

Long, white hair swept down his back, with a shorter beard that reached his chest. His face had many lines of age that had formed over the years, and yet he did not seem old in the way that mortals became as their days passed by. His eyes were deep and penetrating, and yet they were empty of all kindness and instead seemed like endless, black dungeons.

"My lord," the hunter began, bowing slightly. "I have brought you another one. I trust that she will do well."

"She had better," Saruman replied. "The last one before her died a month after you brought him. We will have to discuss that unfortunate event on your next visit, for I am too busy at the moment." The man nodded, and Gúthwyn saw fear briefly enter his eyes before it disappeared as swiftly as it had come.

"I understand," he responded, all emotion now gone from his face.

"As for you…" Saruman began, looking down at Gúthwyn. Under his gaze she suddenly felt about two feet tall, and she found herself unable to meet his cold eyes. "Surely you have figured out by now that this is no visit. You have been taken here to work for me, and you will do so for the rest of your life as my slave."

_The rest of my life… slave…_ The rest of his speech she did not remember now, not after hearing those. _I will never see my uncle or Théodred again…_ Glancing up at the wizard now, she wondered what Éomer or Éowyn would do. The answer came to her in a split second, and before she had time to think she spoke it.

"I serve no one but my family." At her words, Saruman's eyes flared with anger, and she instantly regretted her reply.

Stepping down to the next step, he leaned forward and wrenched her out of the hunter's hands. Easily lifting her young body up in the air, he spoke quietly, but with fury at her defiance evident in his voice.

"You foolish girl, your family you will never see again! I own you now, and you will do as I bid without complaint, or I will feed you to that Warg you were staring at earlier." His hold on the neck of her shirt tightened, and Gúthwyn tried to twist out of his grasp, but with no success. "Do you understand me?" Saruman continued.

"Y-yes…" Gúthwyn gasped.

"Then who is your master?" the wizard questioned.

"You," she ground out, gritting her teeth together. _I am sorry Uncle_, she mentally apologized._ I am sorry for being weak and helpless. Please forgive me!_

"Good," Saruman spoke, setting her down at last with a cruel smile on his face. Reaching into his robes, he pulled a purse out of a hidden pocket that made a jangling sound when it was moved. Reaching around Gúthwyn, he handed it to the hunter. "Here is your reward," he informed the man. "I will expect you back within the month."

"Yes, my lord Saruman," the hunter said. "Thank you." The wizard merely nodded, and the hunter turned around and began his descent down the stairs. Saruman kept his hand on Gúthwyn as the two watched him mount Gegwyn and ride off, disappearing through the tunnel in a minute. It was after he had gone that Gúthwyn realized that she had never known his name.

"Come," Saruman broke the silence. "I will bring you to your quarters, since my messenger has disappeared; there you will live out your days." Gúthwyn did not respond, a part of her still trying to accept the fact that she would die here in this awful place. She did not say anything either as Saruman steered her down the steps and around the Orthanc, keeping close to the tower so as not to fall into one of the gaping holes all about the landscape. Choosing one of the eight pathways that began from the Orthanc, he began walking down it, still holding his new slave.

Gúthwyn was relieved to see that there were no 'Wargs' here, but the strange men were still in sight, and there were plenty of them to see. Saruman looked at them not, but focused his eyes on the inside of the stone ring, which he was guiding Gúthwyn to. She could not see why, but as they drew closer she saw that several doors were set in the rock, with a small, open window next to each of them.

_This must be where he keeps his slaves_, Gúthwyn thought, looking with apprehension at the door they were heading towards. _I will spend the rest of my existence within stone walls!_ There was no time to dwell on that idea for long, however, for they had arrived at the entrance to Gúthwyn's new life. Taking a deep breath, she watched as Saruman swung it open to reveal what it hid.

The room could not have been bigger than hers back at home in Meduseld. It was much darker also, being made with stone, and only a single candle cast light on its contents. The small window Gúthwyn had seen did not help matters at all- as a matter of fact, it was letting the smoke from outside into the dwelling. Ten cots had been jammed together in this space with barely a foot of separation between each of them. Eight of them were occupied by a group of humans ranging from young to old, who were in the middle of a half-hearted conversation.

When the door was opened, sixteen pairs of eyes stared up at them in surprise. Clearly the wizard did not venture here often. The oldest of the eight, an elderly woman, immediately got up and wove her way around the cots to get to Saruman.

"Yes, my lord?" she inquired, keeping her head directed towards the dirt floor.

"Here is another slave," Saruman began. "I have placed her in here and I want you to take care of her. She can begin with the afternoon chores. I trust that you have all finished your morning work?"

"Yes, we have," the woman answered, raising her head but still not looking at her owner. Seeing Gúthwyn, a look of pity and sorrow entered her eyes.

"I expect that one of you will tell her what to do. If I find that she has not learned properly, it will be her blood that is spilt, and then that of her trainer's," Saruman threatened, staring at each worker fiercely. With the exception of a few of the older humans, the rest of them looked back at him fearfully.

"We will do our best," the woman assured the wizard.

"Remember the consequences if you do not," he warned her. Without another word, he thrust Gúthwyn inside the dwelling and shut the door on her, leaving her in a room full of strangers and ending the first part of her life.


	6. Acquaintences

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Five:**

Here I must say a big thank-you to Cassia and Siobhan, the authors of the excellent Mellon Chronicles series who allowed me to use the hunter and the harness. Remember that my knowledge of fighting is limited. As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as Gúthwyn's fellow slaves, which are all taken from there), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. I am sorry for the overload of descriptions you will be getting in this chapter, but it must be done. Also, according to _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there were no passages running from the Orthanc to the forges that you will see in this chapter. However, I cannot clearly make out any other entrance (other than what appears to be a ladder but I could easily be mistaken), so I have thus established the existence of the tunnels. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon (and please ignore the insertion of Gúthwyn, I know that Éomer and Éowyn had no younger sister).

**Chapter Five**

Gúthwyn stared apprehensively at the new group of people as the door slammed shut behind her and she stood in the room. All of them stared back at her, and a loud silence settled over the dwelling.

The elderly woman finally ended the awkward moment. "What is your name, young child?" she inquired.

"I-I am Gúthwyn," the daughter of Éomund stammered.

"I am glad to meet you, Gúthwyn, although not under these circumstances," the woman replied, her keen gray eyes displaying warmth and kindness. Gúthwyn liked her instantly. "I am Abaudia," the woman continued, offering her withered hand. After a second of hesitation, the girl shook it. "Welcome to our clan. We are known as the Mûlnothrim.

"Over here are Gwollyn and Regwyn," Abaudia spoke, gesturing towards two boys who appeared to be slightly younger than Gúthwyn. Although one appeared older than the other, they were nearly identical, with a mop of brown hair on their heads that framed eyes the same hue as their locks.

"The youngest is Onyveth." Now the elderly woman directed her finger to a small child who could not have seen more than six winters. She eagerly grinned at the newcomer, her aqua eyes sparkling with innocence. Gúthwyn, despite her uneasy, apprehensive state, could not help but smile back as Onyveth bounced up and down on her cot, her sandy-colored tresses going in all directions.

"Then we have Feride." A young woman with her dark hair pulled tightly back away from her face nodded once at Gúthwyn, her gray eyes never changing expression. She had an air of mature authority about her, which Théodwyn's daughter sensed immediately.

"To your right sits Lebryn," Abaudia informed Gúthwyn. The black-haired boy merely scowled at her, and she saw that just below his right elbow were many bandages that had been wrapped around a stump. She wondered with pity how his limb had been removed, until the boy's voice interrupted her thoughts.

"It does not hurt. So do not be nice to me because of it. I have no need for your sympathy," he insisted, his dark eyes glaring at Gúthwyn. She marveled to hear such bitter words coming from his mouth, for he had less years of age upon him than Gwollyn and Regwyn.

"Lebryn, please! Gúthwyn is new here, could you spare her from your rude behavior?" Abaudia scolded. Although the foul look dropped off of the boy's face, his expression was still sullen and he did not remove his eyes from Saruman's newest slave.

In an attempt to gloss over Lebryn's hostility, Abaudia hastened the introductions. "This is Cobryn," she spoke, looking at the last male in the room. He was about Feride's age, but that was where the similarities ended. He had short, light hair and warm brown eyes that displayed intelligence and strength.

"And last, but not least, is Chalibeth." The girl Gúthwyn now directed her gaze towards seemed to be her age, as she was of the same structure and build. Light locks fell past her shoulders, and she had eyes that were a close, if not exact, match to Gúthwyn's. Shyly Chalibeth smiled and mouthed the word 'hello.' "You two should get along well," Abaudia guessed. "Please, pick one of the remaining cots. It will be your space when we are all in this dwelling."

Nodding, Gúthwyn made her way towards the unoccupied bedding next to Chalibeth, trying to ignore the others watching her every move. Sitting down on it, she leaned her back against the wall and realized that she must look like a mess. The five incisions on her face probably did not help matters either.

"As I was saying," Abaudia began, "we have a little less than an hour before we must do our chores, and we must divide them up between us. The way we do things," she now told Gúthwyn, "is to take turns performing the separate duties, for some are worse than others."

"What are they?" Gúthwyn inquired.

"The first, and easiest, is cleaning the Orthanc. Do not misinterpret my words, for by itself it is a very difficult task, and yet pales in comparison with the others. The next is the work in Isengard's forge, where we must make swords and armor."

"Are they for all of those men and Orcs that patrol the area?" Gúthwyn questioned.

"Well, that was what we all thought," Cobryn spoke from his cot. "But there are not that many of them, and the armor that we make is much bigger in size. We must have made over a thousand of them already and yet I have never seen anyone wearing them."

"That is strange," Gúthwyn commented.

"And lastly, we have to feed the Wargs. Your bed and the other empty one used to belong to other slaves who were killed because of that task," Abaudia finished. "Do you know what Wargs are?" Gúthwyn nodded silently.

"Can we get back to the point of this conversation?" Lebryn complained. "This is boring." He was cut off by Feride, who lightly slapped him from where she sat.

"Behave," she warned.

"Now that we have nine people, the groups can all have an equal number of workers. Therefore, we do not have to keep changing them with each set of chores," Abaudia announced. "Gúthwyn, I think I shall have you go with Chalibeth and Cobryn, so you can start off in the forge." Once again Gúthwyn acknowledged the woman. Part of her was still disbelieving the fact that she would now have to work for her living. And as a slave, nonetheless… only a week ago she had been happy with her family, who valued and respected her, and now she was to be nothing more than a member of Saruman's workforce.

"Lebryn, Feride, and Onyveth, you three have the cleaning duty today." Abaudia dealt out the orders calmly, but Gúthwyn saw her tremble as she proclaimed her own job. "Gwollyn, Regwyn, and I shall feed the Wargs." The boys' faces were stony, and revealed none of their thoughts, but one could practically see the dread radiating from their bodies.

Just then a gust of wind blew the fumes through the window and into the room, making them all gasp and choke while trying to cover their faces. Burying her head in her hands, Gúthwyn tried to hold her breath as she felt ash whip past her body. Luckily, the incident was short, and in a minute she looked upward and took a deep breath of the now-clean air.

She could see the others doing the same, and after clearing her throat she asked, "How often do these things occur?"

"Quite frequently," Abaudia answered. Her voice was horse, and it took numerous, hacking coughs to get it back to normal. Gúthwyn wondered how old she was, and could not believe that Saruman would be so cruel as to work people in her condition. "Come," the elderly woman continued. "We should report now for duty."

With not a few groans, the clan stood up and filed out of the room. Gúthwyn made sure that she stayed close to Chalibeth, as she had no idea where anything was. It seemed, however, that all of the group's chores were in the Orthanc that day, and she did not need the girl's help at the moment.

Looking around, Gúthwyn saw many of the men, but the Orcs had vanished, and there was no sight of the Warg either. No one harried the passing slaves as they strode down the path, and their progress was relatively quick. She noticed that they all took care never to leave this road, and was puzzled until she surveyed the ground and saw the fissures. She speculated how far down the landing would be if one were to fall into their depths, and then decided that she did not want to know.

Still no one separated from the group as they turned left towards the entrance to the wizard's tower. As they rounded the corner, a group of Orcs in front of the steps leading into the Orthanc came into their vision. The five of them were intensely arguing about something until they saw the workers approach them.

"Just where do you scumbags think yer going?" one of them jeered, stepping towards the clan with a foul look in his eyes. This was Gúthwyn's first up-close glimpse of an Orc, and she did not like it at all. The creature's flesh was gnarled and twisted, and had been pierced several times with crude metal earrings sticking at odd intervals around its face. Its armor consisted of poorly wrought materials, most of which were animal hides. A small, wooden blow was slung over its shoulder and a long scimitar was clutched in its hand. The others looked almost exactly like him, with only slight variations in their protective gear and weapons.

Immediately Cobryn made his way to the front of the slaves, hoping to save them from any harm that might befall. Overlooked by the Orcs, Abaudia, Gwollyn, and Regwyn slipped away, heading not towards the Orthanc, but away from it. "We are slaves," Cobryn spoke, "and have work to do. You would do well not to hinder us." The Orc growled angrily, and closed the distance between himself and Cobryn.

"Let them pass." The voice above them came out of nowhere, but as they all looked up a man standing on the top step came into view. "Or it will be your limbs that Saruman dangles into the Wargs' cages!"

"Move it!" the offending Orc snapped at Cobryn. However, the young adult refused to move until the rest of the clan had past him. Once he was satisfied that no harm could come to his friends, he moved past the Orcs without flinching and rejoined the group at it's rear.

Gúthwyn slowed down so that she was walking next to him. "Will you get in trouble for that?" she whispered, mindful of the Orcs not ten yards away from them.

"No," Cobryn replied softly. "They will forget it soon. It was only a minor 'rebellion,' if you could call it that, and they were wrong, as the man pointed out." Gúthwyn nodded in understanding, and as they mounted the stairs she sighed. She did not know what awaited her behind that door that they were nearing, but she was sure that it concealed nothing good.

The man that had allowed them to pass moved aside without a word, and Feride, who was now at the head of the group, opened the door. It was large, and undoubtedly as old as the structure itself, and yet made no noise as it swung on its hinges.

"Get anyone who is off duty to do it! Saruman has ordered these domes to be made to cover the holes outside, and he will see it done before the month is out!" A deep, angry voice entered their ears as the slaves walked into a large room. As a result of having been made with the same ebony material as the exterior of the building, numerous torches had been lit and were hanging in brackets along the wall. There were few windows, and they were covered in hazy glass. In the center of the hall, a tall, spiraling staircase wound its way upwards, additionally snaking down below the floor that they stood on and out of sight. The atmosphere was very stifling, and Gúthwyn felt as if she was slowly being suffocated.

Two humans stood in front of the aforementioned steps. One of them appeared very angry, and was waving his arms about to illustrate his point. "Do you understand what I am trying to say?" he asked, his voice echoing off of the nearly bare walls and ceiling. He was the one that they had overheard a few seconds ago.

"What I do not understand is why we even have to build those things in the first place!" the other retorted.

"Because," the former explained impatiently, "five workers this week have died because of the fumes that the forge and furnaces have been expelling! We cannot afford to lose this many, for Saruman still has not finished his work on the Ur-"

"Be quiet!" his companion hissed, seeing the group at last. "What are you staring at?" he growled.

"We were merely waiting for you to move out of the way so that we could go upstairs and start our chores," Feride replied innocently. Without another word, she grasped Onyveth's hand and walked past the now-furtive men, Lebryn following them as they mounted the steps.

"And you three!" the man spoke. "I suppose you want to go underground?"

"Yes, actually, that was our goal," Cobryn answered frostily. Muttering something about a lack of privacy, the men retreated further back into the shadows of the room, resuming their conversation in whispers.

"We got off easy," Chalibeth uttered. Confused, Gúthwyn looked back at her. This was the second encounter where Cobryn had spoken in that manner to those who were in a higher position than he and escaped the consequences. "Did you hear them talking about the recent deaths? They are not going to 'discipline' us for fear of more casualties." Ending the conversation, she strode after the others, who were already moving towards the staircase. Gúthwyn trailed after her, casting one last look at the men as they disappeared from sight. Her mind puzzled over Saruman's mysterious work for a moment, and then let it go for the time being.

Remembering Abaudia, Gwollyn, and Regwyn's escape from the Orcs, Gúthwyn caught up to Chalibeth, who was a few steps before her. "Where did the others go?" she questioned. Chalibeth seemed to know whom she spoke of, and replied,

"They went to the Warg stables. They are in the other side of the stone ring."

"I see," Gúthwyn responded. _Perhaps that is why I saw a Warg near the entrance tunnel_, she mused.

The steps took them down to another level of the Orthanc, which was identical to the former, with the exception of a gaping hole leading into a long tunnel that had no ending in sight. It was better lit than the first floor, with the torches spaced every few feet. In this direction was where Cobryn and Chalibeth moved, Gúthwyn slightly behind them. She noticed that the air was much hotter down here, and she guessed that it must have risen over ten degrees.

Fanning herself as she did so, Gúthwyn entered through the opening and into the steep passageway. As the flames constantly moved behind her, a faint clinking sound of metal upon metal reached her ears. She thought nothing of it, for she was growing increasingly uncomfortable as the temperature steadily rose and the path went downhill, eventually causing tiny beads of perspiration to form on her head and start dripping off of her chin.

"Why is it so hot?" she complained, wiping her forehead with her arm.

"The forge is close ahead," was Cobryn's response. He and Chalibeth did not look at all perturbed by the heat; rather, it was as if they did not even notice it. Gúthwyn wondered how they could stand it as the tunnel took a small turn and opened up to a wooden balcony with a rickety ladder propped up against it.

"Here we are," Chalibeth announced, moving over so Gúthwyn could get a closer look. Éomund's daughter went forward, trembling to a small extent; her tentative step onto the balcony was the step into the calculating, cavernous, and intelligent mind of Saruman the White.


	7. The Forges

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Six:**

As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. I am sorry for the awkward ending of last chapter, but I didn't want it to be longer than the usual amount of pages, and nor did I want it to be shorter unless there was a good reason. All of my knowledge of what goes on in Isengard's forges comes strictly from the book called _The Lord of the Rings Weapons and Warfare_. While I realize that some of the information is inaccurate (for example, referring to Arwen as the only child of Lord Elrond), I really have no other access to any source of information as to how Middle-earth weapons are made, and I believe those segments to be truthful. For the length of the ladder, I simply measured what I had assumed to be one earlier (see the last chapter's author note for more detail), starting at some little entrance thing that led somewhere else. Also, please ignore the over-abundance of the words 'material', 'iron', 'ore', and 'semi-refined ore'- there aren't many synonyms for that word! Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon (and please ignore the insertion of Gúthwyn, I know that Éomer and Éowyn had no younger sister).

Chapter Six 

Displayed before her was a sight like no other she had viewed. Hundreds of people worked beside tables, overseen by several Orcs patrolling the area. Many of the slaves wore gloves as they beat at glowing rods of iron, occasionally turning them over to hammer the other side. More humans worked a short distance away from them, manipulating the results into scimitar shapes with a rhythmic precision, their tools gleaming in the light of the many fires that were being maintained by young children.

In the center of the vast forge, a humongous pile of the weapons stood, mingled amongst heavy, steel-plated armor. The defensive gear was being manufactured by yet more slaves who worked towards the back of the cavern. Ash, soot, and grime covered everyone's tired, weary faces. The working conditions were terrible, Gúthwyn noted, as she breathed the polluted air while surveilling the scene with horror and disgust. _This_ was where she was going to be working for the rest of her life?

A sudden dizziness took hold of her, and Chalibeth had to catch her before she lost her footing. "We must go down now," the girl whispered, "or we will be late." Numbly, Gúthwyn waited as Chalibeth got on the ladder and began climbing downwards, gulping as she realized how high they were above the ground of the forge. It came to her mind that if there were to be a fire in this place, all of them would not be able to escape in time. As the thought occurred to her, she shivered and tried to forget about it.

Gúthwyn was about to follow Chalibeth when a strong hand gripped her arm.

"Not yet," Cobryn warned as she looked up at him questioningly. "If there is more than one person on the rungs at a time, the whole ladder will collapse." Gúthwyn shuddered, imagining flames engulfing everyone as they tried to flee from a fire as a result of this restriction. She heard heart-wrenching screams and the last few sobs of young children who would die before their time, saw the smoke filling up the cavern and shrouding them with death…

"All right, now she is off, you can go down," Cobryn spoke, interrupting her morbid thoughts. Shaking her head to let go of the ash and fire, Gúthwyn gingerly got on the ladder and began the two-hundred-and-fifty foot descent, often praying for her safety as the structure gave a sudden wobble. It took her twice as long to reach the ground as it did Chalibeth, and when she jumped off, she found that her knees were shaking. She was not afraid of heights, of that she was certain, but never before had she trusted her weight to a narrow creation of wood that looked as if it could fall apart at any second.

Cobryn swiftly dropped down beside them a moment later, and led them to a husky, malevolent-looking man who stood upon a small dais clutching a sheet of parchment in one hand and a leather whip in the other. A tiny shelf next to him held an inkbottle with a feather quill dipped in it.

"Where are you from?" he grunted at Cobryn.

"Mûlnothrim," Chalibeth responded shortly.

"Foolish girl, speak when you are spoken to!" the man snapped, lashing the ground with the leather strip and chuckling as it made an ear-splitting _smack_. Gúthwyn had to restrain herself from gasping aloud, knowing that intimidation was weakness. Removing the quill from its bottle, the human hastily scratched at the document he grasped.

"Gyllyn!" he bellowed across the forge as loudly as he could. "Get your group out of here! Your shift is over!"

A group of worn out adults came silently, dragging their feet over the floor in utter exhaustion. Taking off the protective gloves that they wore, they dropped them into a small pile of the said article, a couple of them moaning softly as they bent over. Having no sympathy for their plight, the man merely grinned evilly as he watched them struggle towards the ladder. "You have three hours in here," he told Cobryn. "If you do anything that you are not supposed to, you will face the consequences."

Nodding curtly, Cobryn strode over to the heap of gloves with Chalibeth and Gúthwyn following after him. Each of them selected a pair, and, after trying them on to make sure that the fit was good, straightened up and began moving towards the center of the forge.

"Did anyone see where they came from?" Cobryn muttered.

"Who?" Gúthwyn questioned.

"I think the group that we just relieved must have been working on the slag in the material over there next to the huge vat," Chalibeth pointed out.

"Slag?" Having no idea what was going on, Gúthwyn had a bewildered look upon her face.

"It is the residue that is in the- well, we shall show you what to do," Chalibeth responded, casting a glance at the large container next to them. It held hot, molten iron and was ready to divulge its contents at the slightest adjustment of a wooden lever that was connected to the pedestal it stood on. A stone table stood a couple of inches before it, waiting to receive the semi-refined ore. Sweaty and fatigued, a small contingent of workers stood with metal hoes, ready to spread the iron evenly over the rock surface.

"It is not terribly hot," Cobryn explained, "so if we can quickly drag small amounts of it over to our table, we will not get burnt." Personally, Gúthwyn thought that the whole process sounded a bit risky. "Then, we hold it over this barrel," he continued, motioning towards a good-sized cask that, although it was filled with water, had a bright flaming twinkling sinisterly inside of it. Knowing nothing of the cleverness of Saruman, Gúthwyn believed it to be magic, attributing her logic to the fact that the man was, after all, a wizard.

"You see these hammers?" Chalibeth held up three of them, effectively taking over the teachings. "We use these to beat the slag out of the iron."

"What is 'slag'?" Gúthwyn inquired.

"As I mentioned earlier, it is the remaining material that is left in the ore when it gets poured out. Since the iron gets so heated over the fire, and ultimately starts glowing orange, this excess substance shows up as dark specks. They are very easy to see," Chalibeth clarified. Gúthwyn marveled at how mature she sounded for her age. "Then," her mentor continued, "we strike it out."

Just then a hissing sound filled their ears, its source at the iron-containing vat. Swiveling around, Gúthwyn observed the semi-refined ore oozing out of the vessel. The slaves held their tools at the ready, waiting for the opportune moment to begin their work. They started swiftly, raking the hoes over the iron as the container finished depositing its contents, easily separating the thick material into small sections.

Reaching over, Chalibeth grabbed one of these sections, her action duplicated by Cobryn a second later. "Do not take one yet!" he called over his shoulder, seeing Gúthwyn about to remove one from the table. "You need to see what is done first!" Nodding, Gúthwyn moved closer to see what she needed to do.

A second later, a hissing sound arose from the barrel as a cloud of steam erupted from the water. Chalibeth had dipped her piece of iron in, pulling it out a second later to heat it in the flames. Moving it back and forth and occasionally flipping it over to distribute the warmth evenly, she waited for half a minute before yanking it out and hurriedly bringing it over to their own stone counter and placing the iron unceremoniously upon the surface.

"Do not hold it for too long, or then it will start burning through your gloves," she cautioned. "Although they are relatively well-made, their protection is not ever-lasting." Raising the hammer as she spoke, she began whacking the metal, aiming for the darker spots in the now-bright ore. Slowly and yet surely they diminished, and Gúthwyn thought that she had the concept at last. As Cobryn came towards them with his own piece, she went over towards the other table to start her work.

Gasping as she picked up a rod of the semi-refined ore, Gúthwyn wondered how her co-workers could stand the scalding material. As fast as she could, she made her way to the barrel and dipped it in the water, instinctively turning her face away as the vapor immediately fogged up her vision.

_Now what?_ Completely forgetting what she was supposed to do next, she stood there for a few seconds, trying to recapture what had slipped her mind. As the steam cleared, she saw the fire burning in the water. _Of course!_ she realized, swiftly passing the iron over the small blaze. _One… two… three…_ she began counting the seconds in her head, astounded by how quickly the metal heated up. When she reached thirty, she moved the ore to the table, choosing one of the hammers that lay on the counter.

As Gúthwyn began the slow process of removing the slag, she became completely focused on the weapon that she was making. When Cobryn and Chalibeth finished theirs and started the cycle anew, she was barely aware of their going. It was as if some part of her knew that if she did not do her job to the employer's satisfaction, there would be severe consequences.

At last she was done with her task, and looking up from her workspace spotted the next table in the industrial line. Three men were spreading the malleable iron into crude scimitar shapes, using the molds that they had been given to make the chore easier. Hesitantly Gúthwyn approached them, wondering if she was doing the right thing. However, since no one hindered her, she assumed that she was and kept on walking.

"Here is another," she spoke quietly. Above the din of metal clanking against metal, no one heard her. "Excuse me?" This time her voice was a bit louder, and one of the humans turned around.

"I beg your pardon?" he questioned.

"I have another one," she stated. The man smiled wearily, dutifully taking the object.

"Thank you," he replied.

"Your welcome," Gúthwyn responded. Turning on her heel, she returned back to her station and resumed work.

The minutes stretched by and turned themselves into an hour, and then another. By now the whole routine had become a bore, one that Gúthwyn was tired of doing, and could not imagine spending two more of these endless hours performing. Her face now wore the same layer of ash that everyone else's displayed, and she frequently had to wipe her forehead to ensure that none got in her eyes.

She had begun pounding the slag out of what felt like her hundredth weapon when suddenly a man's scream filled the air, rent with pain unequaled to anything Gúthwyn had seen as of yet. Everyone in the forge turned towards its source, frozen as if the ability to move had left them. As Gúthwyn was to find out, the sight was not uncommon, but still placed horror in the hearts of those who had become used to it every time.

One of the slaves that operated the vat of molten iron lay on his back, writhing in agony, his entire left arm covered in the ore. Despite the fact that many of the iron strips that his co-workers created out of the material were not terribly hot, since they swiftly cooled once out of the vessel, this was a different case altogether. Steam still rose from the semi-refined ore as it hardened on the unfortunate human's limb.

"Get back to work, you lazy slaves!" a harsh voice bellowed, causing everyone to wince and hurriedly turn back to their task. Gúthwyn stared at them, incredulous, unable to believe that they had just refused to help one of their comrades. The man needed help- could they not see that?

Thinking of nothing else, she abandoned her labor and ran over to the wounded human. Ignoring his weak protests and her friends' calls of "Gúthwyn, what are you doing?" she kneeled by his side and attempted to scrape off some of the iron, extremely grateful for the thick gloves she wore.

"No… please… you will get in trouble…" the slave tried to move away from her, groaning in pain as he did so.

"I am sorry," she replied, disregarding his warning and referring to his discomfort, "but would you rather have this harden on your arm and be even more difficult to remove later on?"

"You! Slave! Go back to your duties immediately!" the voice yelled again. Instantly Cobryn appeared by Gúthwyn's side.

"You must leave him there," he urged, though not without pity in his eyes. "Hurry!" he insisted as the sound of footsteps coming towards them met his ears.

"No!" she objected, not looking up once. "How would you feel if it was you on the ground?"

"He is right," the man agreed with Cobryn. "I will be able to take care of it myself."

"I cannot just abandon you here!" Gúthwyn argued back, starting to wipe the slave's lower arm while trying to ignore the scalding material.

"Gúthwyn, he will get help," Cobryn responded.

"What did I tell you?" an Orc overseer growled before more words were exchanged. Effortlessly prizing Gúthwyn's hand from its hold on the worker's arm, he lifted her up in the air and then flung her to a bare patch of ground. "Never disobey me again, girl," he snarled at her as she lay on her stomach, gasping from the force of the throw. Raising the whip that he carried by his side, he swiftly thrust it on her back.

Gúthwyn's small effort to raise herself was instantly stopped as a searing pain originated from around her spine. It was like nothing she had ever experienced before and she thought that it suffered no rival. The thought was an assumption that would see itself proved wrong over and over again in the years to come.

Mercilessly, the Orc lashed her nine times more, going harder with each stroke until there were ten separate welts forming on her backside. The shirt that she wore had given no protection whatsoever, and now was shredded in various spots and soiled with its owner's blood. Cobryn, Chalibeth, and the man Gúthwyn had been trying to help looked upon the scene, their bodies frozen as if someone had stopped time. Quite a few other onlookers carried the same facial expressions as they watched, and some of the younger children had squeezed their eyes shut and stuffed their fingers in their ears.

Half of the forge was silent, the only sound coming from it being Gúthwyn's tormented cries. It was now clear to everyone, if it had not been before, that she was new here, and was not used to the punishment.

"That will teach you to listen next time," the overseer stated, refraining from striking her once more with his whip. The scarlet fluid that now oozed from Gúthwyn's back had dampened the leather, and eagerly he raised it to his outstretched tongue and licked it, to the disgust of not a few.

Realizing that he was done, the workers swiftly returned to their chores, not wanting to be placed in the same position. One by one, their attention was relocated to the responsibility in front of them, and as the cruel-hearted Orc strode away from Gúthwyn, the noise in the forge rose to its normal level again.

Gúthwyn lay there for a moment, still stunned with the shock of what had just happened to her. The stinging was overwhelming, and right now she wanted her sister more than anything. The tears streaming down her cheeks were strengthened as she acknowledged the fact that she would never see Éowyn again. When she had tried to help the man, no notion lay in her head of the penalty that would be exacted upon her.

Unexpectedly, a pair of hands grabbed Gúthwyn's arms and pulled her up. "Hurry," she heard Cobryn speak, "before the overseer comes back." Cringing in pain, Gúthwyn wiped the tears originating from her eyes on her sleeve, sniffling as she tried to repress the sobs that threatened to overtake her body.

"Thank you," she managed to reply, looking up into Cobryn's compassionate eyes. Over his shoulder, she caught a glimpse of Chalibeth observing the two of them as she pretended to do her work. Seeing that Gúthwyn was up, she smiled sadly at her newfound friend and received a wavering grin back.

"We must return to work now," Cobryn responded. "Are you all right?"

"I-I think I c-can manage," Gúthwyn replied, stuttering as she tried to remove the tears in her eyes. The newly formed lacerations still hurt, but already some of the sharper pains were subsiding.

"When our shift is over we will have Abaudia take care of your back," Cobryn informed her. "She has much experience in these matters." Nodding, Gúthwyn squared her shoulders and began walking back to her incomplete weapon. The Orc had not broken her- she had committed no crime and did not deserve that punishment. A few whippings were hardly sufficient enough to tame even the weakest human being, and they certainly did nothing for her.

Chalibeth watched the gradual change of attitude in Gúthwyn, realizing that the next few months would be very interesting to see how the new slave adapted to her surroundings. She could not help but feel, however, that her friend was heading for trouble at times, and hoped that Gúthwyn would soon fall under the dominance of the whip. Ultimately it would be the best thing for her.

_Let us hope that she will see the logic behind that_, Chalibeth mused. The monotonous rise and fall of the hammer that she held took on a new beat, proclaiming _doom, doom, doom_.


	8. A New Life

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Seven:**

As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. All of my knowledge of what goes on in Isengard's forges comes strictly from the book called _The Lord of the Rings Weapons and Warfare_. While I realize that some of the information is inaccurate (for example, calling Arwen the only child of Elrond), I really have no other access to any source of information as to how weapons are made, and I believe those segments to be truthful. I am really sorry about the over-abundance of the words 'material', 'iron', 'ore', and 'semi-refined ore'- there weren't many synonyms for that word! Keep in mind that I have no knowledge of anything medical-related, other then some common sense things and what I've picked up from MASH. If anyone knows how to properly dress a wound (such as the one Gúthwyn just received), please include instructions within your review. As for what will be happening to Gúthwyn later on, it did happen to me (to a lesser and higher degree in some ways), so I can assure you that the results are not made up. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon.

**Chapter Seven**

Less than an hour later, the door leading into the dwelling of the Mûlnothrim swung open, and three people dragged their weary bodies in. Immediately collapsing on their cots, Cobryn, Chalibeth, and Gúthwyn spent the next few minutes resting in an exhausted silence. Noises from the outside drifted in lazily, swimming over their heads while heralding the instantaneous stench that followed.

Rolling over uncomfortably in her cot, Gúthwyn wondered why she felt her back pulsing in pain as she lay over her blanket. It was not until a few seconds later, when she rubbed her hand over the affected area and drew it back, that she saw the dry blood dotting her fingertips and remembered her punishment.

"When will Abaudia be back?" she questioned as she managed, not without small difficulty, to sit up.

"It all depends when they have finished with the Wargs," Chalibeth answered with a small sigh.

"How does Saruman get all of these creatures?" Gúthwyn wanted to know.

"He breeds them," Cobryn explained. "From what, I have never heard, but I do not think that Saruman was their original creator."

"What are they like?" Gúthwyn pressed. A visible shudder shook Chalibeth's body, as if recalling an unpleasant memory.

"Words cannot describe…" she began helplessly. "You shall have to see for yourself."

Just then, the door to the room opened, and the three occupants watched as Lebryn, Feride, and Onyveth ambled in. The younger girl had water down her front, and when Chalibeth inquired about it, Feride replied tiredly that she had dropped the bucket of cleaning water.

"She was lucky that she did not get in trouble for that incident," Cobryn commented. "As it were, Gúthwyn was flogged for coming to the aid of a man who had iron poured on his arm." Lebryn chuckled at the news, smirking in her direction before Feride slapped him on the shoulder.

"Ignore him," she told Gúthwyn. "He is always like this. Let me look at the wounds before Abaudia comes back." As her fellow workers sat down on their beds, she strode over to Gúthwyn's. "Turn around," she commanded. Obediently, Gúthwyn complied, waiting for further instructions as she faced the wall.

Gently, Feride lifted the back of Gúthwyn's shirt and carefully traced her fingers around the welts, examining them for depth and blood loss.

"They do not appear to be that bad," the woman informed Gúthwyn, "but you have not gotten used to these whippings yet." Lowering Gúthwyn's tunic, she sighed. "I can understand lashings for adults, but doing this to naught but children is an unforgivable cruelty."

As Gúthwyn turned around and faced the rest of the clan, the door swung open into the dwelling yet again, and the remaining members of the Mûlnothrim walked in. Gwollyn and Regwyn were in the midst of a conversation, but Abaudia's face was somber.

"Abaudia," Chalibeth began.

"Yes, Chalibeth?"

"Gúthwyn needs you to tend to her back—it was the target of an overseer's whip," Chalibeth answered. To her surprise, Gúthwyn found herself blushing as Abaudia looked at her inquisitively. She had not intended to make that big of a deal out of the situation, and yet everyone's eyes were on her.

"And how did that come to be?" Abaudia queried, her kind face showing concern for the new slave.

"There was a man—" Chalibeth began, but Abaudia held up her hand.

"I would have Gúthwyn tell me," she interrupted softly. Nodding, Chalibeth fell silent, and the question fell on Gúthwyn.

"As Chalibeth said," Gúthwyn started, unsure of her words and how she would put this, "there was a man that we worked next to in Saruman's forge, and suddenly he began screaming: as if he was being tortured, it sounded like. The vat of ore that he had been working with had somehow emptied its contents onto his arm, and he had fallen onto the floor in pain.

"No one was helping him, and I wondered why, but I ran to him so I could try and scrape the burning material off of his skin. I guess that such an action is not allowed, for the Orkish overseer came over and warned me to leave him. I did not, and because of this he whipped me ten times," Gúthwyn finished.

"Well, another lesson learned the difficult way," Abaudia sighed. "Lebryn, could you please hand me the water bucket and the rags next to it?" Grumbling as he did so, the eight-year-old retrieved the requested items, roughly handing them to the elderly woman.

"Here they are," he said gruffly.

"Thank you," Abaudia replied as she kneeled beside Gúthwyn's cot. Lebryn did not answer as he returned to his cot and laid on it, watching Gúthwyn and Abaudia intently as the woman began her work. "Please turn around," Abaudia requested. Once again, Gúthwyn was looking at the wall.

Swiftly, Abaudia dipped a rag into the water bucket, which yielded its contents for drink and medicinal purposes. This was one of these occasions, and taking care not to hurt the young girl, she gingerly cleansed the wound. Although Gúthwyn did not wince, her back muscles tensed with each touch of the fabric, betraying her senses and feelings.

"It does hurt, but it must be done," Abaudia spoke as she worked on one of the lacerations. As she moved the cloth up to follow the cuts, she noticed that the girl's right shoulder had been tightly bound with a similar material as that which Abaudia carried now. "Where did you get that?" she questioned.

"Get what?" Gúthwyn wondered, looking back at her healer questioningly. It was then that she saw what the older woman was speaking of. Her gaze became bewildered, as if she herself could not recall how she had been hurt. Her brow furrowed as she attempted to remember the events of recent days past.

At last Gúthwyn came to a conclusion. "The memory is foggy… but I was shot with an arrow… the hunter must have healed me. I think it may have been poisoned, for I was out of it for days."

"Perhaps I should take a look at it," Abaudia offered.

"It is fine," was the answer. The older woman detected a bit of pride in Gúthwyn's voice, despite the beating she had previously received.

"Where are you from, child?"

"I was taken from Rohan," Gúthwyn replied.

"Ah." That was it, then. Abaudia herself had lived in Gondor before she had been captured in an unexpected raid during her younger days, but she had read about the mighty Rohirrim, the Horse Lords, the Eorlingas. They were indeed a proud group of people, formidable in war and unbeatable in horse breeding, and somehow always managed to arrive at battle just when things were at their worst. Indeed, their coming was often the turning point of any skirmish.

Shaking herself out of her thoughts, Abaudia finished cleaning Gúthwyn's back, placing the rag on the cot while reaching for another. Selecting one of the longer pieces, she held it up to check for dirt. Seeing none, she said to Gúthwyn:

"Can you cross the ends of this material over your stomach and pass them back to me?" She was relieved that Gúthwyn, judging from her nod, understood, and without any more conversation she wrapped the makeshift bandage around her patient's back and placed the strips in open hands.

Quickly, Gúthwyn did as she was told, and a second later Abaudia held the ends again. Working meticulously, she knotted them together, making sure that they stayed together when she released her grip. Now one bandage protected part of Gúthwyn's back from further harm. Luckily, the rags were wide, and it took less of them than normal to finish the job.

Holding up another piece of cloth, Abaudia repeated her instructions to Gúthwyn, and they finished the binding process. Normally, Abaudia was used to doing the procedure by herself, which was a lot easier. However, since to do it without aid required the removal of the patient's shirt, she thought that Gúthwyn should have the opportunity to become more comfortable with the other members of the clan.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn remarked as Abaudia stood up.

"Your welcome," Abaudia replied, groaning slightly as she felt a pain in her joints. She was getting old, and her body was not what it used to be.

"When do we have to go back?" Onyveth asked, looking out the window towards Orthanc as she did so. Feride also looked, but her gaze was directed upwards, struggling to pierce through the haze.

"I believe we have a little over an hour left," she answered. A long pause followed, in which silence was an amicable friend while the other senses, particularly smelling, were not.

Onyveth impatiently broke it. "How did you get here?" she inquired. Everyone's head turned up to meet her, but it was Gúthwyn she was looking at.

"Me?" The young child had not specified who the question was directed to, and Gúthwyn was not sure that her answer was required.

"Yes." Hesitant and not quite knowing what to do, Gúthwyn looked over at Chalibeth, who nodded as if to encourage her. And so, taking a deep breath, Gúthwyn told her story.

Leaving out her relation to the king of Rohan, she briefly outlined where and how she had grown up, only beginning to add in details when she reached her twelfth birthday. She spoke of how she had been extremely excited to learn how to swordfight at last, how horrified she was when her siblings had died of a poisoned arrow, and how she managed to survive to become a slave.

When Gúthwyn had finished, she looked at her audience, all of whom were listening attentively to her story. Making an effort to produce a weak grin, she sought to take the focus off of her. "All right, I have told my tale, now someone speak of their experience."

"Fine, I will," Cobryn offered. "My own version of events will perhaps be shorter than yours, Gúthwyn, but maybe as interesting."

He informed them all that he had grown up in Minas Tirith, the White City of Gondor, and recounted the summer lodgings in a small village within Lossarnach, not too far from his home. The events of the sudden Orc attack during one of these stays unfolded in their minds as he skillfully wove his words, captivating them all as they listened to how he had been knocked unconscious by the blunt end of a scimitar and taken prisoner along with some of the other warriors.

An argument between their captors was spoken of, and how the larger side had won and carted the hostages to Isengard. None of his companions, he said, had survived the journey, and when they arrived at Orthanc, he had been the only slave to offer. "So that is how I came to be here," Cobryn concluded with a sigh. "What I would give to see the White Tower of Ecthelion again…" his eyes glazed over, and he looked as if he was mentally traversing the roads of his city, like he had done three years ago before he had been captured.

Muttered sympathy was heard throughout the room, and continuing the conversation, Feride began her tale. She hailed from Bree, a large town that was much further east than any one of them had ever gone. Serving ale in a little tavern since she was sixteen, she had fallen in love with a foreign, dark-haired man who came at random points of the year, never once removing his black cloak. He always ordered the same thing, she told them, and soon she was able to bring him his drink without any request being made.

One day, the man had offered to take a walk with her, and she had eagerly accepted. The joyous outing, however, was short-lived: only five minutes away from the bar, he had roughly pulled her on a night-colored horse and rode away, ignoring her frightened protests and pleading sobs. He had deposited her before Saruman the White in exchange for a large bag of money.

"That man sounds like my captor," Gúthwyn spoke as Feride wrapped up her account.

"He probably was," Feride spat out bitterly, her eyes flashing with anger. "Ever and anon I have seen him bringing new slaves here, and at all times he receives another parcel containing more gold. It is an easy business for him, I suppose." Her eyes glanced out the small window, and she gasped as she realized the time. "We need to be heading back to our duties!" she exclaimed.

"What of dinner?" Lebryn questioned, his stomach rumbling in agreement.

"Oh, no, we forgot!" Onyveth whined, her eyes becoming glassy with tears.

"We will have it later than usual," Cobryn responded hastily. "Normally we would have it at this time," he informed Gúthwyn.

"Today our chores will be the same," Abaudia reminded them all before they got up, "As we now have an equal amount of people for each job."

Instantly the clan was up and moving, as all of them rose from their seats and filed out the door. Gúthwyn found that she was no longer staring around Isengard in morbid curiosity—it was as if she could not bear to look at the place any more than she had to. Instead, she kept her eyes gazing straight ahead, following her fellow slaves as Orthanc drew closer.

Chalibeth drew up beside her, and with her mind on the conversation the workers had been engaged in a minute ago, Gúthwyn asked,

"How did you get here?" A second later, the daughter of Éomund realized that this might not be the best subject to speak about with Chalibeth, for her friend's eyes became downcast, and she replied quietly,

"I would rather not speak about it."

"As you wish," Gúthwyn answered. An awkward silence fell between the two of them as, without another encounter from any Orcs, they turned towards the stairs leading into Saruman's fortress and continued their hurried strides. Like they had done earlier that day, Abaudia, Gwollyn, and Regwyn headed towards the Warg stables. Gúthwyn watched their receding backs as she walked behind the remaining slaves, with Chalibeth still by her side.

Soon, they stood in front of the stairs, and ever aware of the watchful eye of the sentinel stationed on the landing, the group climbed the steps.

"We are here for our evening chores," Cobryn spoke shortly. Grunting in response, the man let them pass, and as they entered the tower he turned again to scanning the grounds for any suspicious activity.

The entrance room was empty, with no signs of the arguing men they had espied in the afternoon. Once more the group split up, as Feride, Onyveth, and Lebryn began hiking up the circular staircase. The brooding, depressing atmosphere created by the dark walls, flooring, and general emptiness settled over the last three workers, causing them to whisper as if in fear of Saruman himself listening to their every word.

Quietly, Gúthwyn, Cobryn, and Chalibeth descended the last flight of steps into the room below, where the tunnel loomed at them menacingly from the opposite wall. A collective sigh was heard between them as they resigned themselves to another grueling work shift and entered the passage.

Now Gúthwyn questioned not the steady rise in temperature, nor the clanking sounds from the forge ahead. Perspiration started to form on her brow, slowly making its way down her face and onto her neck. Beside her, she could see that Chalibeth and Cobryn were in the same situation, although it was to a lesser degree and they did not seem to be bothered by it at all.

The channel took a little twist in direction, and the balcony appeared in front of the slaves and they could see what was going on in the forge.

"Well, here we are," Chalibeth said, sounding as if they had already finished the labor and were ready for nothing else but a long sleep. Her shoulders visibly slumping, she stepped on to the platform and began lowering herself down the wooden ladder. Soon, her feet had found purchase on solid ground, and she got off of the structure and waited for the next person.

Following Chalibeth, Gúthwyn started the climb downward. She had no fear of heights, but she distrusted the strength of the wood she gripped with her fingers, and to add to her uneasiness, Chalibeth's hands had made the material more slippery than it had been before.

She had only fifteen feet left to go when she suddenly misplaced her hands, losing her footing and her hold. Fear shot through her stomach as she plummeted towards the ground. Instinctively, she curled in on herself, screaming not—it felt as if her vocal cords had leapt out of her throat to save themselves. The last thing she heard before she hit the floor was Chalibeth calling her name.

The impact of her back hitting the dirt-packed ground from that height and at that velocity was enough to knock the wind out of her. For a minute, she could do nothing but lie there, gasping for breath and looking up at Cobryn hurriedly making his way down the ladder.

Oddly enough, she felt no pain in her body, but right now she was focused on the recapturing air.

"Gúthwyn!" Chalibeth cried. "Are you hurt anywhere?"

"No… I do not think so…" Gúthwyn spoke, her voice warily coming back and allowing faint, weak speech. Slowly, she raised herself from the ground, aided by Chalibeth's welcome hand. She rose to her full height before she realized that there was, indeed, pain. Swiftly it consumed her back, making her feel as if she might collapse again.

"Are you all right?" Chalibeth questioned worriedly as she witnessed her friend's discomfort.

"Yes, I will be fine…" Gúthwyn ground out, biting her lip to assuage the agony her body was going through right now.

A second later, Cobryn lightly dropped down next to them, his face full of concern. "Have any of your wounds been reopened?" he inquired urgently. The thought had never occurred to Gúthwyn before, and now she moved her hand under her shirt and ran her fingers over the bandages, wincing as her back protested the action.

"One of them, I believe," she confirmed as she withdrew her arm and looked at her hand. A small section of it had been lightly covered in blood, she saw, but it did not seem too harmful.

"We shall have to get that fixed when we are relieved of our work," Cobryn muttered. Amazingly, no one had noticed them yet, and he intended to keep it that way. "Let us go, we do not wish to be punished for tardiness." Gúthwyn and Chalibeth nodded their heads in agreement, and soon they were walking over to the man who stood on the platform, clutching his parchment in a tight fist.

Gúthwyn moved with her back hunched over, although the bend was not nearly enough to make a spectacle of. By merely placing her foot on the ground she was sharply reminded of her injury a moment before. However, not wanting to be weak again, as she had perceived herself to be when she was flogged, she made no comment about her discomfort and waited as Cobryn told the name of their clan to the servant. The man promptly scribbled something on his list and, yelling at another group to get out of the forge, fingered his whip absent-mindedly.

"I believe we are stuck with slag-duty again," Chalibeth whispered as they moved to get a thick pair of gloves. "How tedious." Gúthwyn was of the same mind, despite the recent events of the afternoon.

Although there was not a repeat of those incidents, the three-hour shift seemed to take forever and a day, especially since night was falling and most people would have been getting ready for bed at this point. As she worked, Gúthwyn found herself wondering how Théoden and Théodred were doing at this moment, and whether they missed her and her siblings at all.

Thoughts of home, though they were accompanied by a horrible sadness, were enough to get her through the endless minutes as they dragged by. Eventually, it was time for everyone in the forge to leave, and there was well nigh a stampede to the ladder. Gúthwyn was somewhat loath to climb it again, but she managed to grit her teeth and do it, much to her personal pride. She spoke naught of it, however, as the whole workforce streamed through the tunnel, up the following stairs, and into the entrance room of Orthanc, where Lebryn, Feride, and Onyveth joined them.

Despite the number of people in the crowd, words were rare and a fatigued silence hung over them all. The sentry on the steps had no trouble controlling their movements as he directed them down the stairs and into the night, a few at a time. When Gúthwyn had at last been released from the tower, she took a deep breath and promptly choked on it, due to the smoke that still floated about in the air.

Although it was summer, the evening atmosphere tended to be cooler in these parts; but since gases strewed the air within Isengard, the temperature was more comfortable. Gúthwyn found herself being reminded of nights like these in Rohan, where she and her family stayed up later than they usually did, and they would ride through the nearby fields until darkness was about to cover all.

"Gúthwyn!" A sharp voice dragged her out of her memories, and to her embarrassment, she realized that she had been about to go in an entirely different direction than she was supposed to.

"Sorry," Gúthwyn answered Cobryn as she rejoined the group. "My mind was elsewhere for a moment."

"Anywhere better than here?" he questioned.

"Excluding Angband and Barad-dûr, what is _worse_?" she wondered out loud. Her response earned a snicker from Cobryn, who had to agree with her.

"Angband?" Chalibeth inquired, feeling as if she had missed some part of her few history lessons.

"The Hells of Iron, or the fortress of Morgoth in days long past," Cobryn explained. "Morgoth was a Vala, greater than his servant Sauron can ever hope to be." Chalibeth nodded in understanding, but Gúthwyn got the impression that she had already known who Morgoth was. She herself had learned about him from her uncle, who, in addition to having a good knowledge of lore, had remembered much from the tales of a man by the name of Thorongil.

Thorongil had served in her grandfather's army a long time ago, when Théoden was a young boy. He was not from Rohan, but came from the west to serve the king Thengel. A skilled fighter he was, and there was an air of mystery about him, for he never told anyone where he had come from. After he had left for Gondor, much to Thengel's disappointment, no news of him reached their ears after that, and many forgot that he had been in Rohan at all.

Shaking her head, Gúthwyn discovered that her musings had sustained her throughout much of the walk, and they were almost at their dwelling. Most of the crowd had dispersed at various points, and Gúthwyn wondered how many rooms were concealed inside of the stone ring.

Soon, Feride had pushed open the door leading into their small space, and the six of them piled in, exhausted and sore from a long day's work. A few hours ago, Gúthwyn had heard some slaves complaining about morning schedules, and shuddered to think of how worn out she would be tomorrow night.

Collapsing on her cot, Gúthwyn lay there a few seconds before a grumbling sound provoked her to sit up. Glancing around, she became conscious of the fact that she was starving. Nor was she alone in this opinion.

"When are we having dinner?" Lebryn wondered aloud, stretching his arms and speaking through a yawn.

"As soon as the others return," Feride tiredly responded from where she lay, sprawled across her cot with her eyes half-closed. Lebryn sighed—clearly he thought that Abaudia, Gwollyn, and Regwyn would never be back. Gúthwyn herself had private misgivings about having to wait for her meal. In Meduseld, whenever she wanted food, she would receive it promptly after she voiced her desire. She realized now that many people did not lead the same lifestyle that she once had, and that she would need to adapt to the surrounding customs.

The room was silent for a moment until Cobryn stirred, looking first at Gúthwyn and then towards Feride. "Feride," he spoke.

"Yes?" Feride replied, propping her head on her arms in order to look at him.

"When we went down to the forge, some of Gúthwyn's wounds were opened again. Do you think you could have a look at them?" In answer, Feride nodded, and Gúthwyn felt her stomach twist uneasily. Although Abaudia's previous administrations had been gentle and with good intent, Gúthwyn had developed a dislike for the practice, as it made her feel vulnerable and dependent on others.

"No, really, I am fine," she feebly protested as Feride got up and began walking towards her cot.

"Nonsense," Feride answered. "Despite the fact that you are most likely as you say, I would never forgive myself if I had overlooked anything fatal. Turn around."

Sighing softly, Gúthwyn did as she was told, and closed her eyes while waiting for Feride to begin. She felt the back of her tunic being lifted up, and the lacerations being carefully poked and prodded as the woman searched for anything amiss. She had the distinct feeling that everyone was watching her, and she desperately wished that the cot would swallow her up, even though it was a ludicrous prospect.

"All is well," Feride announced, letting go of Gúthwyn's shirt. The younger girl wasted no time in swiveling around again. "However, Cobryn, I am glad that you told me. Gúthwyn, if anything happens to your wounds again, please do not hesitate to inform one of us." Gúthwyn nodded, thinking to herself that that would be the last thing she did.

At that moment, the door swung open, and the rest of the Mûlnothrim clan straggled in, each seeming wearier than the next. As the others had done, they too sank on their cots, grateful to enjoy a few moments of much-needed rest.

"Can we have dinner now?" Lebryn questioned, ever impatient for what he desired.

"Yes, I think that some food would benefit us all," Abaudia replied. "Chalibeth, will you take Gúthwyn to the stores so she will know where they are? You two can help each other share the load."

"Oh, so one can carry the water bucket and the other will hold the foot-long parcel? Yes, now I see why we need to people to perform the taxing labor," Lebryn spoke, generating a cynical laugh amongst the older slaves. It was true that Saruman's servants were not fed well, with the exception of the men who had willingly placed themselves under his rule. These, he gave excellent provisions. Bacon, salted pork, wine, beer, and bread with butter and honey to spread on it were not uncommon on the plates of his faithful men.

Chalibeth stood up, and Gúthwyn followed suit. "We will be back soon," Chalibeth announced, and then strode to the door and flung it open. Hesitantly, Gúthwyn picked up the water bucket, not sure whether it was the right thing to do. However, when no one spoke against it, she continued. Careful to let Chalibeth lead the way, she stayed a few paces behind her as she marched down the path.

"Why is it that we receive so little?" she questioned as they began walking around the side of Orthanc.

"Because we are worth nothing, other than what we were paid for," Chalibeth answered grimly. "If one of us dies, it matters not in the White Wizard's eyes, for he can easily hire a man to capture a few more people. He is not so eager to spend his provisions on labor workers."

"No one would do that!" Gúthwyn exclaimed, disbelieving that one person could watch lives be thrown away and wasted without mourning their loss.

"Then why are we here?" Chalibeth demanded, looking back at Gúthwyn as she turned their course towards the entrance tunnel. "Why were you flogged when you tried to help a poor man? Why do nine humans have a foot-long package containing their evening meal to split amongst themselves?" The bitter words pouring through Chalibeth's mouth stopped Gúthwyn in her tracks. Never before had she heard someone speak with such anger and hatred about something.

However, she still could not bring herself to accept the fact that the man who now seemingly controlled her life, Saruman, would be so cruel. He had always been eager to lend aid to Rohan, no matter the cost. "The wizard has ever helped the people, from where I came from," Gúthwyn added. At that, Chalibeth swiveled around, and arched an eyebrow. "Then you were taken out of Edoras, were you not?"

Surprised at the amazing inference her friend had just made, Gúthwyn nodded, starting to walk again. "My – the king," she stuttered, aware that it did not necessarily lead to something good when she revealed her connection to Théoden, "was going to receive a councilor from him, someone who would help in the decision-making. Up until then, he had to rely on the advice from Marshals, whose primary concern was that of warfare." She was unaware of the fearful look that crossed Chalibeth's face, swiftly giving way to disgust and fury.

"That man, that so-called 'councilor,'" she seethed, clenching her fists as her voice raised with every syllable, "is a monster and a foul—" Seeing Gúthwyn's shocked look, and apparently thinking better of what she had been about to say, Chalibeth abruptly ended her rant. "Come," she spoke. "We are almost there."

"How did you know that I was from Edoras?" Gúthwyn queried to Chalibeth's back.

"That is not for me to speak of at the present moment," Chalibeth replied. Gúthwyn got the feeling that her friend knew a lot more than she did about what awaited Rohan, and it disquieted her.

She was shaken out of her thoughts by Chalibeth, once more. "Be careful," the girl warned. For the first time since their debate had begun, Gúthwyn glanced around her, at first seeing the tunnel leading out of Isengard drawing near, and then nearly jumping five feet into the air in horror. Less than three yards away from her stood a Warg, snarling and stamping its paws as the two slaves passed. A large, bulky man sat straddled upon its back, keeping what seemed to be a very lenient control. The animal was staring at both of them, appearing as though it wanted nothing more than to run over and tear them to pieces with its deadly fangs.

"Chalibeth?" Gúthwyn whispered nervously, catching up with her and throwing furtive glances at both man and beast.

"Do not worry," her friend replied, not even looking at the Warg. "It will not eat us." As Chalibeth spoke, an image flashed through Gúthwyn's mind. She was in a humongous, underground room, clutching a blade in her shaking hand, which was covered in blood that she somehow knew to be from one of the beasts. Dead Wargs lay about her feet, but as she prepared to finish off the rest of the attacking group, a scream echoed throughout the area. Looking up, she saw a flash of golden hair disappear beneath a pile of the frenzied beasts.

Just as suddenly as the vision came, it had passed, leaving Gúthwyn to wonder about the identity of the unfortunate victim. It had seemed so real, and yet when she held her hand before her face, it was dirty, but not soiled with her scarlet fluids.

"I want to show you something," Chalibeth's voice entered Gúthwyn's head, and she started before coming back to her senses. "You will see how little respect we have." By now, the girls were passing through the tunnel that led outside of Isengard.

"Are we leaving?" Gúthwyn questioned incredulously.

"Do not be ridiculous," Chalibeth scoffed as she slowed down, although her tone was not condescending. "Do you see the door upon our left?" Gúthwyn saw that she was right. "That is the entrance into the guard-house, which leads to the store-rooms." Gúthwyn made to go towards it, but then stopped when Chalibeth did not move. "Go on," the slave encouraged her, and Gúthwyn got the feeling that she was about to see what Chalibeth had wanted to show her.

Tentatively, she walked up to the door. "You do not have to knock," Chalibeth informed her. Nodding, Gúthwyn swung it open, and stepped inside.

She had a brief view of a large, stone chamber, with a good-sized fireplace restraining merrily dancing flames inside, before a dark, bulky mass stepped before her. Before she could make any noise of surprise, she felt herself being lifted off of her feet by her throat.

"What are you doing here?" she heard someone roar. Her eyes had squeezed shut in fright, and opening them, she gazed into fierce, dark, hollow orbs. Unkempt, messy, black hair was strewn across the man's face, which was half-covered by a shaggy beard home to several pieces of stale food. Gúthwyn began shivering in terror, and looked back over her shoulder for some aid, but Chalibeth was nowhere to be seen.

"Answer me!" the man roared, slapping her face with a calloused hand. Her cheek began stinging, and she gasped from the shock as she turned her face back to him, her lungs drawing less air as his crushing grip tightened.

"W-we came here-here to get some f-food," Gúthwyn choked out. "Please, sir, you are hurting me!" Her only responses were peals of laughter from more humans, evidently sentries of Isengard, who sat at a wooden table two yards from where her tormentor was having his fun, their meal ignored for a bit of evening entertainment.

"Move it, you scum!" the man bellowed, throwing her towards a door that stood about twenty feet down the wall from the table. Landing hard and painfully next to a bench, Gúthwyn barely had time to stand up before another man grabbed her arm and thrust her forward, clapping his hands drunkenly as she hit the wall headfirst.

Swallowing back tears that threatened to spill out from her horror-filled eyes, Gúthwyn scrambled to the door, yanking it open and tripping into the room beyond. Another wave of mirth rose up amongst the guards, and peeking back into the guard-house, she saw her assaulter have his turn with Chalibeth. She was amazed to see the bravery in her friend's eyes, which met the man's evenly and showed no signs of pain as she was flung towards the chamber where Gúthwyn sought refuge. _I wish I were more like her_, Gúthwyn thought.

A second later, Chalibeth stumbled in, and Gúthwyn heaved the door shut, wanting to look upon the men no longer.

"Thank you," Chalibeth breathed, her face a flushed red color.

"Your welcome," Gúthwyn said automatically, now staring in wonder around the store-room, her pain temporarily forgotten. Never before had she seen so much food in one place, even though countless feasts had been held at Meduseld for the entire population of Edoras. In reality, there were fewer items in the area than she had supposed, but the compressed atmosphere lent to the effect. Barrels upon barrels lined the walls, stored underneath shelves that held a countless number of parcels wrapped in inexpensive-looking parchment.

"It is not much," Chalibeth spoke, rubbing her arm as if it pained her. "The water is stale, and often dirty, while the packages contain nothing more than a few slices of bread."

Her awe slightly deflated, Gúthwyn moved forward, and then realized that she did not know what to do. As if she could read her thoughts, Chalibeth announced that she would retrieve the water. "You look for the label 'Mûlnothrim'." Wordlessly, Gúthwyn handed her the water bucket, an item that she had managed to cling onto while at the mercy of the sentinel.

Striding towards the shelves, she searched through the parcels, her right leg throbbing from where it had hit the bench leg. _There will be a bruise tomorrow, I am sure of it_, she assessed. Just then, a clumsily scrawled 'M' caught her eye, and she was able to make out 'ûlnothrim' following it. Picking up the package, she was dismayed to find how light it was. _This whole thing would not satisfy my hunger_, she despaired as her stomach rumbled. _How are we supposed to divide it amongst nine?_

"Are you ready?" Chalibeth wanted to know, coming up behind her holding a half-full water bucket.

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered.

"Hopefully they will be drunk enough by now to not mark our passing," Chalibeth remarked in an undertone. Her words brought back the memories that Gúthwyn had of those guards; memories which had begun to retreat into a dark corner of her mind and which were now brought forth again. Gúthwyn's face noticeably paled, and she could feel beads of sweat forming on her hands. "Do not worry," Chalibeth continued. "You will get used to them. You are new, otherwise they would not have bothered us."

And with those somewhat reassuring words, she stalked to the door and flung it open, Gúthwyn trailing behind her. Raucous roaring met their ears as a coarse joke came to its punch line, and as they looked into the guard-house they saw one man rolling around on the floor, tears of laughter mixed with beer staining his ruddy face. Gúthwyn saw that it was the very sentinel who had hurled her against the wall.

"Hurry, let us move before they take notice of our presence," Chalibeth whispered, and swiftly they made their way to the door leading into the tunnel.

"Hey, you over there!" they heard behind them. Panicking, Gúthwyn rushed the exit and pushed it open, Chalibeth piling out after her before she slammed it shut. No sounds of pursuit entered their ears as Chalibeth checked to make sure the water bucket had not relinquished any of its contents.

"Good," she muttered. "It would not be wise to venture in there again for a while."

"Will they remember us?" Gúthwyn inquired fearfully.

"My guess is no," Chalibeth responded. Silence fell about them as they made their way back through the passageway, coughing slightly as it opened up to the ash-filled air encircling Orthanc. "Do you see how poorly we were treated?" she questioned, once they had cleared the tunnel. "And this is not that bad, in comparison to what else could have happened. Nothing is wrong in their minds; and Saruman does not forbid it, which encourages them."

Gúthwyn did not answer. Her mind was wrapped in dark thought, for the words of Chalibeth set her ill at ease, and the two of them continued on in silence. It did not take them long to return to their clan's dwelling, and Gúthwyn was much relieved when they walked into the room and saw the familiar face of Abaudia welcoming them back and wanting to know what had taken them so long.

"It will not benefit you if you take to strolling around Isengard at night," she reprimanded them.

"We did not go for a 'stroll,'" Chalibeth answered, setting down the bucket. "The guards saw Gúthwyn as a recently-established slave, and had their sport with us."

"Did they…?" Feride left her question unfinished, but Gúthwyn noticed that the older members of the group had tensed up at her words.

"No," Chalibeth was quick to confirm, although Gúthwyn could not figure out what the query had been, or why Feride heaved a great sigh and appeared to let loose a breath that she had been holding.

"What?" she inquired, looking between the two of them.

"It is nothing that you need concern yourself with at the moment, my dear," Abaudia spoke kindly. "Did you receive any injuries from the men?"

"No, I do not believe so," Gúthwyn stated. "I will probably have some bruises in the morning, however." At this, Abaudia said nothing, but clucked her tongue in distaste.

"They are monsters, the lot of them," she spoke, an angry tone weaving its way into her voice. "And yet there is nothing we can do about it."

"Can we eat now?" Lebryn whined, grabbing his stomach in mock agony. "I am starving!"

"Please?" Onyveth begged. It was clear to Gúthwyn that the two of them had understood no more than she had.

"Yes, we should have our dinner soon," Cobryn agreed. "We will need our rest for tomorrow."

With that said, Abaudia opened the package, and discovered three medium-sized pieces of bread. Completely unsurprised by the lack of food, she bade Chalibeth to get the ladle from under her bed and store it in the water container. Feride stood on her own cot to reach a knife that was secured to the wall by means of a long, thin rope. It was close to the ceiling, in hopes of keeping the younger ones away.

"You may all sit back down," Abaudia spoke after those tasks had been completed and Feride had given her the knife. "I will cut the bread." Instantly they obeyed her command, and watched as she meticulously divided each slice into three pieces. Gúthwyn's heart sank as she realized how little food she would be getting, compared to how hungry she was at the moment. _Is this what we receive for every meal?_ she speculated, hoping that she was wrong in her assumption.

After Abaudia had finished her job, she went to all of the slaves, handing them their piece of bread. Many, in particular Lebryn, Gwollyn, and Regwyn, stuffed theirs into their mouths and devoured them greedily, glancing around the dwelling to see if anyone did not want theirs. However, Gúthwyn chewed slowly, wanting to savor every bite as long as possible, for she did not know when they would have breakfast. _I wonder_, she thought bitterly, _do we even have a morning meal?_

Despite her unhurried pace, her bread was finished long before she had even started to feel the hollow in her stomach being filled, and she leaned against the wall with a sigh, remembering the nights at Meduseld with soup, and three slices of bread if one would want, and water in a never-ending abundance. She heard a growling noise from within her, protesting the mental torment she was inflicting upon herself, and she forced herself to stop thinking about them.

"Chalibeth, will you distribute the water?" Abaudia asked. Curious, Gúthwyn looked around, seeing no cups for the liquid to be poured into.

Soundlessly, Chalibeth stood up and made for the water bucket, picking it up and absently-mindedly giving the contents a stir with the dipper she had put in there earlier. Walking over to Abaudia, she scooped some of the water onto the large spoon, and deposited it onto the elder woman's outstretched hands. Gúthwyn stared, aghast and at a loss for words, as Abaudia swiftly brought her hands to her mouth and gulped down the water.

Looking at her own natural eating utensils, she saw how unclean and unfit for holding water they were, and tried to wipe some of the dirt off onto her pants, but was unsuccessful. Chalibeth soon stood before her, and Gúthwyn was forced to hold out her soiled hands for the water. It was transferred onto her hands, and as fast as she could she raised them and tried to swallow the drink. Although she managed to get most of it in her mouth, a fair bit missed its target, and dribbled down her chin.

Hoping that no one, except for herself and Chalibeth, had witnessed her clumsiness, she wiped her face with her sleeve. Looking out the makeshift window, she wondered what time it was, and what would happen after they had all been fed and watered.

She did not have to wait long to find out. "All right, it is time for bed, everyone." Abaudia announced, eliciting several groans from the younger clan members. "You know what happens if we are not asleep by a certain time," she reprimanded them. "Do you wish to bring punishment upon yourselves?" The children went quiet, knowing that she was right, although Lebryn had a surly look about his face, and most likely would have protested further if Feride had not been watching him out of the corner of her eye.

Looking about her, Gúthwyn saw that she had only the thin, torn blanket upon her cot, and that, for a pillow, she would have to suffice with the bundle of rags at its head. Glancing around the dwelling, she saw that everyone else had the same limited bedding. They merely threw the sheet over themselves and rested their head upon the crude pillow.

Following their example, Gúthwyn did the same, and once Abaudia was sure that everyone was ready for a night of sleep she blew out the candle, their only source of light; the room was cast into darkness, but not silence. Sounds of clanking machinery and occasionally loud, raucous yells were punctuated from the hissing steam that, ever and anon, rose up into the sky from the forge by means of the large holes that Gúthwyn had seen earlier.

Unused to such an environment, Gúthwyn lay upon her cot, unable to go to sleep. One by one, she heard the breathing of the other slaves become steady and even, and she knew that they had drifted off into a land of dreams. However, she knew she would find no solace in rest, unless perhaps her mind wandered across the plains of Rohan. The longing to ride free in her uncle's lands consumed her swiftly, and she imagined herself upon Heorot, galloping through the plains.

Slowly merging into existence, the forms of Éomer and Éowyn rode alongside her, and the three of them spoke about everything and nothing, as they had before the man had come and taken Gúthwyn from her family. Théoden and Théodred materialized, also, and soon the five members of the royal house were traveling back to Edoras.

Shaking her head, Gúthwyn pulled out of her thoughts. _It is naught but a wish_, she sternly reminded herself. _It will not come true. Éowyn and Éomer are…dead. _Admitting it in her mind, although she had spoke of it to the other slaves, made it seem real. She realized that, all along, she had been lying to her heart, saying that her siblings would come back and rescue her.

_What a fool I have been_, she thought bitterly, her eyes watering with angry tears. _They cannot come back from the Halls of Mandos. I will never see them again._ The tears began sliding down her cheeks, and yet she found that she had no strength to wipe them away. Her body began shaking with quiet sobs, and she stuffed her face into her pillow, not wanting anyone, if indeed someone was awake, to hear her.

For how long she lay there she did not know. Her misery forced her to lose all sense of time, and at the moment, she was completely wrapped in grief and despair. Perhaps the worst part was that, from having seen a fair share of maps in Edoras, she knew that Isengard was not a terrific distance from Rohan. To know that she was so close to her homeland and yet unable to see it was maddening.

At length, Gúthwyn's tears came fewer and further between, and she wiped her eyes on her pillow. The noises of Saruman's contraptions had failed, and she supposed that all of the workers were done for the night. Her face was red and damp from crying, and her nose was running. Scanning the dwelling for something to clean it with, she saw that Chalibeth was looking at her, and her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

"How long have you been awake?" she whispered quietly, not wishing to rouse the other slaves from their sleep.

"I have not even begun to dose off," was the answer. "You miss your home, do you not?" Gúthwyn was silent for a moment, and then admitted,

"Yes. I do miss Rohan. And my family."

"I am sorry for your loss," Chalibeth responded. "I remember feeling the same way when I came here, a little over a year ago."

"How were you taken?" Gúthwyn queried again, her curiosity overcoming her sadness for the moment.

"I will tell you later," Chalibeth answered, her eyes dark as if recalling an unpleasant memory. "We should be going to sleep."

"You are right," Gúthwyn replied. There was another pause, and then she looked back at Chalibeth. "Will you not speak a word of this to anyone?"

"I promise that you shall hear naught of this from my mouth," Chalibeth vowed, smiling at her friend.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn spoke. Once again, all was quiet, but this time it was not awkward, and eventually, the two of them fell asleep. Outside, the smoke that wrapped itself around Orthanc covered the last star that had pierced brightly through the mists, and the grounds were thrown into darkness. Thus ended Gúthwyn's first day at Isengard.


	9. A Crooked Line

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Eight:**

As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. This chapter, you will meet a character that you will recognize. No, I'm not telling who they are. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Here, I would like to comment on the dialogue used between Gúthwyn and the other, younger slaves. I am aware that it seems very advanced for children, and the lack of contractions (i.e. 'can't', 'won't', etc) may look strange, but in _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, words tended to be more eloquent than what they are now. In addition, I have observed that with the exception of the hobbits, contractions were generally not used when speaking. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created. Also, there is something else that canon-nazis, such as myself, would have commented on. Unfortunately, _The Atlas of Middle-earth _has given no certain number of floors in Orthanc, and although I have tried to count (having already scoured the section where Saruman's tower is described in _The Two Towers_) and come up with four, the staircase shown on the map is spiraling, which tends to lead to complications. So, for the purpose of this story, I have kept my estimate at four. Another guess that I have made is the methods of fire starting. I have no idea how to start a fire, other than that thing with rubbing two sticks together, never mind how the people of Middle-earth did so. If anyone has any suggestions, I'd be grateful to hear them. Finally, I would like to apologize for the lengthy seventh chapter. I honestly did not intend to make it twice the size of the others, but there were really no good stopping points.

**Chapter Eight**

"Gúthwyn!" A sharp voice pierced the daughter of Éomund's dreams, forcing her eyelids open. The sky was light, and the sun was steadily rising over Isengard. The sounds of a large factory just opened for the day filtered in through the window, another ten machines starting up every minute. Already smoke had started to pollute the air.

"Gúthwyn!" the voice sounded again, and guiltily Gúthwyn looked up to see Feride striding towards her. "It is almost three hours before noon! Get up! It will be our blood that is repaid if we are late!"

Like a young rabbit that has just spotted a hawk, Gúthwyn leaped off of her cot and stood up. "What are we having for breakfast?" she wondered aloud.

"We do not have breakfast," Feride answered. "Now that you are awake, we will dole out the assignments." Gúthwyn did not hear her last words. _No breakfast?_ she thought, crestfallen with the idea of hard labor on an empty stomach. _How will I get through the morning?_ Chalibeth seemed to read her expression, and spoke,

"Do not worry. We have a large noontime meal." Gúthwyn met her eyes for a split second, and Chalibeth smiled reassuringly. Gúthwyn nodded, feeling glad that Chalibeth was so willing to help her through her awkward first days at Isengard.

"Since our number is now nine," Abaudia began, "we will keep the same groups as yesterday, and they will remain so until someone new is brought to us or death take one of the clan." With those words, Gúthwyn shivered, wondering whether she meant 'of old age' or a premature ending of life. "Cobryn, Chalibeth, and Gúthwyn, you shall be cleaning inside Orthanc today." Cobryn signaled his agreement, appearing relieved with the appointed task. "Gwollyn, Regwyn, and I will work in the forge. Feride," she continued, "you, Lebryn, and Onyveth must feed the Wargs." Glancing at Feride, who stood next to her, she muttered in her ear, "Heed my warning."

"As I ever do," Feride responded, with an equally low tone of voice. Gúthwyn, who was standing behind them, overheard this exchange and wondered what the 'warning' had been. She made a mental note to ask Chalibeth later on.

"We should get a move on," Cobryn suggested, coming beside Gúthwyn's cot and glancing out the window at the sun's height. With resounding choruses of assent, the clan surged forward and out the door. In a matter of minutes they had arrived at the steps leading into Orthanc, and Feride, Lebryn, and Onvyeth were taking their leave to the Warg stables. Hurrying up the steps, the remaining slaves got past the guard and entered Orthanc.

"This way," Cobryn corrected Gúthwyn when she made to go down the stairs as they had yesterday.

"Oh, yes," Gúthwyn said, slightly blushing at her mistake. Cobryn strode to a door on the southern wall of Orthanc that Gúthwyn had overlooked the last time she was in the tower. Pulling it open, he revealed a dark, windowless storage room that contained several buckets full of water, numerous brooms, and countless rags neatly ordered on shelves that were of the same material as the building itself. Three other small groups of workers stood in the area, gathering the supplies and walking out when they had enough.

"Grab a broom, bucket, and five of those pieces of cloth," Cobryn instructed. As she did so, Gúthwyn saw more people filter in, and marveled at the size of Saruman's fortress if it required so much work to clean. "We have the fourth, and top, floor," Cobryn continued. "It has less space, but is the worse for inhabitants." Gúthwyn looked at him inquisitively, trying to figure out what he meant, but he offered no further explanation, and she did not ask. Perhaps if she had looked at Chalibeth's dark face, she would have been able to guess, but she was concentrating on not spilling the bucket of water.

"Let us go," Chalibeth spoke, and merging with another clan of slaves, they came back out into the gloomy, ebony-hued chamber. Gúthwyn fell behind as they began ascending the stairs, content for Cobryn and Chalibeth to lead the way through the foreign structure.

As they rose higher in Orthanc, the people around them began to disperse according to their assigned floor. Following them with her eyes, occasionally, Gúthwyn saw that the landings were much like that of the first story, although the chambers were not as cavernous. The reason for this was the large amount of doors that were built into the walls, evidently leading to more rooms that were certainly bigger than the tiny supplies closet.

On the second level, however, there was another feature in addition to a smaller hall: a balcony, overlooking the eastern expanse of Isengard. Gúthwyn had never been aware of its existence before, although, she realized, she had never looked upwards upon entering Orthanc. Her head had been too bowed with fear of what lay before her.

It was here that the Mûlnothrim were left alone to climb one more flight of steps before arriving on the third floor of Orthanc. It was like the second before that, if one looked at the size of the main room. Likewise, there was a similar balcony, of the same size, and surveying the same portion of land. The atmosphere was so quiet that Gúthwyn could feel the silence buzzing in her ears.

"We cannot stand here forever," Chalibeth interrupted her musings. "We have work to do." Nodding, Gúthwyn turned back to continue up the spiraling stairs, but instantly her companions pulled her back.

"Not that way!" they urgently whispered. Gúthwyn looked at them inquisitively.

"This is the third landing," she stated. "We have one more flight to go."

"You are not counting the level below the entrance hall," Cobryn informed her. "This is the fourth floor. If you were to go on upwards, you would find yourself at the top of Orthanc."

"I see," Gúthwyn replied, stepping down onto the floor and taking a better look at her surroundings. Unique to all the other stories, a tall, jet-black, narrow table stood in the center of the chamber. A dark cloth was draped over it, rising higher in the middle as if something was under it. "What is that for?" she inquired.

"We do not know," Chalibeth answered. "We are not allowed to go through the master's belongings—to do so would be nothing short of taking your own life."

"We are late already," Cobryn announced. "Let us hurry before we are punished! Chalibeth, you can clean behind that door ahead of us."

"All right," Chalibeth agreed.

"Gúthwyn, the room on the left—"

"Are you sure about that?" Chalibeth interjected, sounding surprised.

"Yes, I am," Cobryn confirmed his instructions. Leaning over, he muttered something in her ear that Gúthwyn could not catch. _It seems like there are many secrets in this place_, she thought. _I am not sure what I should make of this. And there are no signs of the unsavory occupants that he mentioned earlier._

Meanwhile, Chalibeth emerged from her whispered conversation with Cobryn looking reassured. "I agree," she finished.

"And I will take this space here," Cobryn continued. "Gúthwyn, stay here for a minute. I will give you further directions." Gúthwyn remained where she was as Chalibeth opened the northern door and disappeared through it. "Gúthwyn, you must pay attention to these orders, do you understand?" Cobryn demanded.

"I do," Gúthwyn responded.

"Good," Cobryn replied. "Now listen. Whatever articles you may see, scattered on the floor or on any surface, _do not pick them up or look at them_."

"Then how am I supposed to clean," Gúthwyn wanted to know, "if I cannot sort these documents?"

"There is a candelabrum there, for starters," Cobryn began. "You should light the candles anew."

"With what?" Gúthwyn inquired.

"In the center desk, the top drawer contains the instruments necessary," Cobryn told her, deftly producing a small, unadorned key from seemingly nowhere. "This was in the supplies room. It will open up that compartment." Handing the key over to Gúthwyn, he watched as she shifted the bucket to her left hand so she could take it with her better one.

"Anything else?" Gúthwyn asked.

"Yes," Cobryn said. "The floors you may wash, using what utensils you have- but remember to _avoid the parchment_. I cannot stress enough how important it is for you to do so."

"I understand," Gúthwyn answered.

"Now go," Cobryn responded. "We will get in trouble if we are not punctual."

Turning on her heel, Gúthwyn strode to her left and opened what she now saw to be a set of double doors. Looking around, she realized that the others were similar, and wondered how she did not notice that before. _It is no matter_, she thought as she opened one of the doors and set foot inside.

It was oppressively dark, even though there were eight windows that filtered musty sunlight in from the north, south, and west. To her right was a slanted stand, which was home to many disorganized papers. As she gazed upon it, one of the pieces of parchment teetered on the uneven surface and slipped to a long bench below.

On the opposite end of the room, a long, wide table stood under two of the windows. It, too, was cluttered with parchment, but it also was strewn with many books. They alone were neatly arranged, although in what order Gúthwyn could not guess. Glancing towards the center of the room, her eyes fell upon a small desk, but it was apparently of great importance, for it alone out of all the surfaces in this chamber had managed to receive a chair. _Although it does not seem very comfortable_, Gúthwyn guessed. The seat's back was tall and straight; there was no cushion on the bottom.

_There is the candelabrum._ Gúthwyn saw this curious instrument on the middle desk. However, it was burning merrily. _Is it still necessary for me to kindle the flames_? she wondered. _Perhaps I should take a look inside of the drawer and familiarize myself with the contents just in case._ Approaching the writing table, Gúthwyn could not help but feel as if she was doing something wrong, even though she knew she was not. The office had a forbidding air about it, almost like it was warning anyone but its maker away from its domain.

Setting down the bucket along with the accompanying rags and broom, she fit the key in the lock, turned it, and opened the top compartment. However, the items she found inside only added to her confusion: a stick, and a jar of some liquid. _Oil_, Gúthwyn deduced. _But how on Middle-earth am I supposed to start a fire with these things?_ Knowing that it was better to wait and find out later, rather than do something wrong, she decided to leave the candles as they were. _Besides, they have already been lit._

Ignoring the prickling on her back from what she guessed to be the room's atmosphere, she determined to begin washing the floor. Picking up one of the cloths, she dipped it in the container. When she was satisfied that she had enough water on it, she began to methodically scrub the ground on the left side of the area. She could see that none of the parchment had fallen to the ground, and was glad, for it made her job easier to not have to work around them.

Although the office had undoubtedly been tidied the day before, the task was not an easy one, and Gúthwyn's back was soon aching from vigorously rubbing the black floor. With a swiftly drying surface that was at times illuminated by the flickering flames that danced in the candles, and at others cast into shadow by the desk, she could rarely tell what she had washed, and what she had yet to do.

_I wonder what my uncle would say if he could see me now_, Gúthwyn thought ashamedly. _What would he think of me? Would I have dishonored the family? I am sure that this has never happened before: a daughter of Rohan, forced to bow down to an enemy and live out her life as a slave._ The consideration was enough to make Gúthwyn sob, but she had defiled the house of Théoden enough already, and she choked back the tears that threatened to spill from within her eyes.

She had become so absorbed in her job and reflections that she did not register the sound of the doors closing behind her. Indeed, Gúthwyn worked for several more minutes before realizing that the air had become deathly quiet. The uncomfortable sensation in her body that she had felt before returned in full force. Yet now she perceived that it was not from the intimidating aura of the study. She was being watched.

Whirling around, she found herself inches away from a set of pale, blue, sinister-looking eyes. One was more diluted than the other, but both were staring at her intensely. Gasping in shock, Gúthwyn backed up a considerable length, causing the bucket to tilt over and lose its contents upon the floor. She could feel the water seeping into her clothes, but for fear of turning her back on this person, she did not assess the damage.

The owner of the eyes was a tall man. Or, at least, he should have been tall, but he was so stooped over from undeterminable factors that his head was barely half a foot higher than Gúthwyn's. Swathing his entire body was a bulky, dark velvet robe that had an enormous fur collar, which surrounded an ornate, silver necklace. Limp, black hair in dire need of a wash was another noteworthy and equally horrible feature.

"Who are-are you?" she choked out.

"My dear," he replied smoothly, with a voice that was oily and not at all pleasant to listen to, "I will be asking the questions. Who are you?" As he spoke these words, he edged closer to Gúthwyn, who in turned inched away even further. _This cannot go on forever_, she realized. _Soon I will have reached the wall._

Hoping to avoid trouble, she answered, "G-Gúthwyn." At this, the man smiled, although she knew not why.

"Ah," he replied. "You are of the Rohirrim then, are you not?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn responded, wondering why everyone was bringing this up with her. "Please, sir, I have to return to my duties."

Ignoring her words, the man strode even closer to her, and before she could move away, he grabbed her arm. Panicking, she exclaimed, "Sir, I must continue working!" _Anything to keep him away from me!_ she thought, beginning to shake from the close proximity.

"I am also from Rohan," the man murmured, stroking her shoulder gently with his free hand. Gúthwyn shuddered from the touch, feeling as if she would never be clean again. His finger was ice-cold, as if he was dead. "Vile, warmongering, crude beasts the people are." As he talked, he examined her face closely, gauging it for a reaction.

"How dare you?" Gúthwyn spat, wrenching free of his grasp. Before she could stop herself with thoughts of caution, she pulled her fist back and punched him square on the nose. A sickening _crack_ rent the atmosphere, and Gúthwyn realized that she had gone too far.

Lunging forward, the man took hold of her again, grabbing her waist and drawing her close to him. "I see you have not yet been disciplined," he whispered in her ear, blood oozing down his mouth and making him look like a crow that feeds only on carrion. "You are a fool, very much like the king of your precious land." The smell of his rancid breath hung in the air as he pulled her towards the middle desk. A terrifying fear clenched Gúthwyn's heart as she guessed his intentions.

At that moment, the door burst open, and Cobryn stalked in.

"Cobryn!" Gúthwyn gasped, nearly overwhelmed with relief. Never before had she been so glad to see anyone. Her tormentor looked up, and the enraged look that crossed his face as Cobryn neared them was hideous to behold.

"Please, my lord," Cobryn began politely, his face masking whatever his thoughts may have been. "I am in charge of her, and would have no harm come to her. Rumor runs through this building that the master is coming, and she must finish her task." At his words, a wild look came into the man's eyes as he released Gúthwyn, like a trapped animal searching for an escape from merciless hunters. But it was quickly replaced by the angry expression that he had worn seconds ago.

"You tell this—vermin, this filth," he growled, pointing a wavering finger in Gúthwyn's direction, "that she will not last long here if she does not learn to be respectful to her superiors!" With that, he turned on his heel and stormed out of the room, his cloak swishing and trailing behind him.

The two were silent as the sound of his receding footsteps faded down the stairs. Gúthwyn glanced down at her hands and saw that they were trembling, and, try as she might, she could not get them to stop.

"What did he do to you?" Cobryn questioned urgently after a moment.

"Nothing," Gúthwyn said, her voice coming out as a mere whisper. "He was though, he was going to…" Tears began sliding down her face, and her breath was rattling in her chest. The areas where he had laid his hands on her were now defiled, and Gúthwyn felt as if no small number of baths would suffice to wash the filth away.

Not wishing for Cobryn to see her in another moment of weakness, she attempted to banish her sobs, but she was unsuccessful. "I am so glad… that you came when you d-did," she informed her rescuer, her eyes welling up with more tears.

Sensing her distress and realizing that it could lead to hysteria, Cobryn placed a comforting hand on her arm. He was astounded when she flinched, and her quivering intensified. _Surely she should not behave like this_, he wondered. _She is so young._ Concealing his amazement, he pulled his hand back. "I am sorry," he apologized. Gúthwyn looked up at him, and he could tell that she had been very aware of his actions.

"It is all right," she replied. "You just… reminded me of him for a moment, that is all." Remembering the question that had been gnawing at her since her close encounter, she asked, "Who was that?"

"That man was Gríma, son of Gálmód," Cobryn answered. "However, I only know his name because I overheard it in a conversation between him and the wizard. The rest of the slaves know him as 'Serpent Tongue', or 'the Serpent'."

"The name fits him," Gúthwyn spoke, bristling with anger as she recalled Gríma's words concerning her uncle and his people. For some reason, she thought that she had heard his name before. But the idea was banished from her mind as her tears subsided, and her hands became quite still.

Noticing her return to normal, Cobryn inquired, "Are you ready to begin cleaning again?" Gúthwyn remembered his words to Serpent Tongue, and gasped.

"Saruman!" she exclaimed. "He is coming, and I cannot finish my job because I have no water!"

Laughing gently, Cobryn corrected her. "I merely made that up to make the Serpent leave us. As far as I know, the white wizard could be visiting the Warg stables." Addressing Gúthwyn's lack of cleaning supplies, he continued, "I am done with my portion of the work, and there was some water left over. You may use that. While I get it, you should try spreading what was spilled over the floor."

"All right," Gúthwyn answered, watching as Cobryn began walking out of the room. Once he was out of sight, she took a deep breath and sank to the floor in a kneeling position. The quaking returned, and salty tears were forming in her eyes again. The sudden calmness had only been a front that her body had put up; inside, she still had not let go of the horror she had felt at the hands of Gríma Serpent Tongue.

Her mind, in the time frame of a few seconds, rehashed the event over and over again. She found herself wondering, w_hat if Cobryn had not interrupted him?_ The very thought that the Serpent could have violated her was enough to make life on Middle-earth seem pointless.

Steeling herself to forget his pawing hands as he had dragged her to the desk, Gúthwyn heeded Cobryn's words and attempted to distribute the water evenly across the floor with a rag, wiping her eyes as she did so. And so it was that, when her savior returned, he could see no sign of the near-breakdown that Gúthwyn had just gone through.

"Did it work?" Cobryn inquired, referring to the dispensing technique as he shifted his water bucket from hand to hand.

"Yes, somewhat," Gúthwyn replied. "And I am grateful, for it makes everything easier. "However," she spoke, standing up as she did so and surveying her work, "I am only halfway through."

"Then here you are," Cobryn responded, handing her the container.

"Thank you." For the next few minutes, Cobryn waited as she completed her task, taking care not to disturb anything in the study. He knew that, to the wizard, any one of the uncountable scrolls was worth more than his own life.

Suddenly he broke the silence. "And what did you, in turn, Gúthwyn of the Rohirrim, do to the Serpent? I saw blood upon his face, and if I am not mistaken, it was also broken." His words were spoken in jest, but behind his fair face was worry for the fortunes of this girl.

Gúthwyn looked up at him, a faint smile tugging at her lips as she relished the event. "He insulted Rohan, it's people, and my king. I only gave him what he deserved." Glancing at Cobryn, Gúthwyn perceived that he was not sharing her happiness. "What?" she questioned. Cobryn did not answer, but suddenly it dawned on her: the same revelation that she had gone through when she had punched the Serpent. She would be lucky if flogging was her only punishment. "Oh no…" she groaned, fear clouding her face once more, as if she expected Saruman himself to come storming in the room.

Knowing her worries, Cobryn was quick to calm them. "Do not worry. The incident will most likely amuse the master rather than infuriate him, for it was a minor one. But you must understand: you cannot go around defying his servants. It will not do you any good, and trouble will come of it. Twice now, if not more, you have done such a thing. You _must_ control yourself.

"You were lucky, this time. You and I both know what Serpent Tongue would have done, had I not come in. Already your insolence is reaping its crooked reward." Gúthwyn saw now the anxiety Cobryn was going through, and realized that it was on her part.

"I will try… I will try to keep my fists by my sides and my tongue in my mouth," she promised. Viewing the office floor, she continued, "Do I need to dry this surface?"

"No," was Cobryn's response. "It will do so soon enough."

"All right."

"Make good on your vow!" he cautioned her. "This issue cannot be lightly thrown aside."

"You would make a good scribe, someday," Gúthwyn informed him as she got up and began to collect her supplies.

"Really?" Cobryn wondered bemusedly, a slightly pleased appearance coming over him. "I had never considered it. But I suppose that such a career is lost." Gúthwyn sighed heavily.

"Yes, you are probably right," she replied.

"Without a doubt I am," Cobryn corrected her. "Are you ready to leave?"

"Yes, I am." Gúthwyn had now thrown all of her equipment into the two buckets that were stacked on top of each other.

"Good. Let us find Chalibeth," Cobryn suggested. Gúthwyn nodded in agreement, and the two of them walked out of the room. As Cobryn began shutting the doors, Gúthwyn took one last look at the gloomy, dreadful area and fervently hoped that she would never have to go back in there again.

They found Chalibeth waiting for them, sitting on the floor with her back leaning against the stand. "I am finished," she told them.

"Excellent," Cobryn replied. "Right on time, also." Ambling over to the balcony, he looked out and up into the sky. Gúthwyn noticed that he never once stepped out of Orthanc. "It is almost noon."

"I am starving," Chalibeth commented, wiping her brow with her sleeve. "I could use a good meal." Indeed, Gúthwyn was also ravenous, although the fear of the Serpent and a morning of hard labor had quite driven it out of her mind.

As they began descending the spiral staircase, Chalibeth posed a question. "Gúthwyn," she began, "did you meet Serpent Tongue? I saw him stalking down these steps not ten minutes ago. He was in a rage, and muttering something about 'proud, insufferable Rohirrim'." At this, Gúthwyn's blood boiled, and her hands instinctively curled into a tight ball by her sides.

"I did," she replied, her voice trembling from a mixture of fright and anger.

"Did he…?" Chalibeth wanted to know, echoing the words of Feride from the night before. Now Gúthwyn understood their meaning.

"He tried to," Cobryn explained, hoping to save Gúthwyn the embarrassment of answering. "But luckily, I entered the room before he had a chance."

"The Serpent is disgusting; despicable," Chalibeth growled. "But his methods of mischief-making are not what they used to be, if he was caught." There was a fierce tone behind her words, and Gúthwyn wondered whether there was more in Chalibeth's head than in her speech.

"Unfortunately, you two appear older than you are," Cobryn stated. "Had he known your age, perhaps things would be different."

"Or maybe they would not be," Chalibeth responded darkly. "I, for one, would not put anything past him."

While they were speaking, they had been traveling down the stairs, occasionally being joined by some of the other slaves who had also finished their duties. Since it was early in the morning, the sun having not risen to its peak in the sky, the workers were more animate than during the night, and many conversations had formed around them. Food was one of the main topics: it seemed that everyone enjoyed their afternoon meal.

At length they came to the main chamber in Orthanc. The sun, oftentimes dimmed by the smoky atmosphere, was streaming in through the open door. The humans turned aside for one brief moment to return their supplies, and when they came out, Abaudia, Gwollyn, Regwyn, and the rest of the laborers were in the room. Together, they exited the tower and came outside.


	10. A Glimmer of Comfort

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Nine:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. This chapter, you will meet a character that you will recognize. No, I'm not telling who they are. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. In addition, let me tell you this: Originally, I intended for chapters nine and eight to be the same chapter; however, it came out to a whopping twenty pages! Uh-uh, no way. So I cut it in half.

**Chapter Nine**

Immediately, Cobryn pulled Abaudia to the side and started whispering to her as the slaves poured down the steps leading to the ground, looking around periodically to make sure no one was listening to their speech. Gúthwyn could not hear what words passed between them, but she could guess. The older woman's face was troubled, and would at times glance at the Rohirric twelve-year-old to her left.

Turning her head away from the pair, Gúthwyn focused her attention on Chalibeth, who until now had been marching silently, veiling whatever may have been running through her mind. "I cannot wait for lunch," Gúthwyn spoke. Chalibeth looked up, appearing to have been abruptly jerked from a pleasant memory, and Gúthwyn felt a twinge of guilt that she had been the one to bring her friend back to reality.

"Me neither," Chalibeth replied. "It is a relief to be out of the wizard's stifling fortress."

"Aye, I agree," Gúthwyn responded as they turned to the northeast, back towards their quarters. "It is—" At that moment, Feride, Lebryn, and Onyveth merged with the group.

"Cobryn!" Lebryn yelled, distracting the slave from his talk with Abaudia. "I found some sticks!" he continued, waving two of these objects around. They were a little bit longer than the length of his only arm, and relatively thick. "Now we do not have to stop if one of our other ones breaks!"

"After lunch, as usual," Cobryn responded, grinning as he did so. However, Feride did not look terribly happy.

"Do not broadcast your possession of these items!" she hissed at Lebryn. "Do you wish to get us all in trouble?" Lebryn pointedly ignored her, but it was noticeable that he spoke no longer of the sticks. Gúthwyn was confused; for the life of her, she could not figure out how two sticks served for entertainment purposes.

"What is going on?" she questioned Chalibeth, who also appeared pleased with Lebryn's find.

"We use those sticks for swordplay," she answered. "Sometimes Lebryn manages to steal some. Do you see that tall, gloomy forest behind the mountains over there?" She pointed over the stone ring that encircled part of Nan Curunír, the Wizard's Vale, also known as Isengard. From where she stood, Gúthwyn could espy the line of green that loomed in the distance. From her studies, she realized that this was the Fangorn Forest, the dark region of wood that marked the borders of the Riddermark.

"Yes," she affirmed, "I do."

"Once every week or so," Chalibeth explained, "the master sends his more faithful servants there, and they chop down the trees and use their remains to fuel the numerous fires that need to be kindled for his evil purposes. Once in awhile, however, one of these beings, usually an Orc, is careless enough to drop some of his load, and then we will gather them.

"Then, when we have some free time, we will practice sword fighting. It is quite fun; you should try it," Chalibeth suggested. Gúthwyn smiled, remembering her all-too-brief training period.

"I have," she responded, "although I had no time to become as good as the rest of my family." Chalibeth gave her a sympathetic look.

"Perhaps Lebryn and Cobryn would be able to aid you. They are easily the best out of all of us."

"Lebryn?" Gúthwyn repeated in surprise. "But he does not have the use of his right hand!" She had, of course, heard rumor of a great Noldorin prince who had been in a similar predicament, and had learned to wield a sword with his left hand more deadly than he had with his other. But Lebryn was not royalty, nor an elf: he was a mere slave.

"Times were hard, when it was bitten off by a Warg two months ago," Chalibeth reminisced, lowering her voice so that Lebryn could not hear them. By now, they were nearing the dwelling. "But you forget that the young learn easier than the old. And if Lebryn had not been able to get along with his disability, he would have been killed, since he would have been no use to the wizard's workforce. Such is the mercy of Saruman the White.

"Cobryn had to teach him everything. But it was much harder for Lebryn, who had to relearn everything that his right arm had naturally done."

"That is amazing," Gúthwyn agreed, wondering if she would have had the strength to do such a thing.

Their discussion was brought to an end as they reached the door that led into their clan's home. Opening it, Feride was the first to enter the area beyond.

"Here we are at last!" she announced, to the ragged cheers of some of the workers.

"Lunch!" Onyveth piped up, her hand on her stomach in a symbol of hunger as she sat down on her makeshift bed.

"Yes, I expect that we are all in need of sustenance," Abaudia replied. "Gwollyn, Regwyn, may I ask you two to retrieve our lunch?" The brethren nodded, turning swiftly back out of the room and disappearing from sight.

Gúthwyn watched them as their backs grew to mere dots in the vast expanse of Isengard, thinking of the treatment that had been bestowed upon her and Chalibeth by the hands of the guards. She found herself praying for the safety of the two boys, although she had been assured that her status as a new slave singled her out as an easy target.

_Besides, Gwollyn and Regwyn are male_, she reminded herself. _Somehow I doubt that the sentinels would behave the same way towards them._

"Are you coming in?" Chalibeth queried gently. Gúthwyn jumped: she had been standing in the doorway, and her back was to the inside of the dwelling.

"Yes, I am," she hastily replied. Guessing her worries, as she was skilled at doing, Chalibeth spoke once more.

"Do not fear for Gwollyn and Regwyn. They will be fine." Gúthwyn smiled at her friend, glad that they could share company. "Now come, let us rest before our meal is brought to us." Looking back inside, Gúthwyn saw that the other slaves lay upon their cots, their eyes closed in peaceful relaxation. The daughter of Éomund, however, did not feel the need for a nap, as she was nowhere near tired.

"Must we?" she wanted to know.

"What else is there to do?" Chalibeth whispered so as not to disturb the rest of the group. Gúthwyn had to admit that there was some truth in her words. Unlike Meduseld, what lay beyond the shelter of any structure was feared, for there the servants of Saruman ceaselessly patrolled the grounds. Orthanc, the forge, and the Warg stables were places of work, not play, and there was no room for any activity that might be contrived in the dwelling of any slave clan.

Chalibeth, herself, desired nothing more than to cast herself on a large, queenly mattress and fall into a deep sleep for at least a year. She understood well Gúthwyn's energy, for her friend had not been here very long. But upon the master's laborers a great weariness of life itself eventually fell, until every waking moment seemed to last an eternity. This lethargy was evident in Abaudia's eyes, and Chalibeth was surprised that the older woman had any will to live. Onyveth, she supposed, having been brought here this year, was one of the factors that kept their healer from traveling the road of the dead, a path that all of them would eventually take.

"You are right," Gúthwyn sighed, unaware that she had just interrupted Chalibeth's musings. Nodding, Chalibeth went back indoors, Gúthwyn trailing behind her. The new slave's steps were now slow and miserable, betraying the desires of the Rohirric girl. _All I wish to do is run in a wide, open field with my family beside me_, she informed a nameless deity. Perhaps she was praying to Bemá himself, he that is Oromë, Huntsman of the Valar, but who knew whether he was listening? _Is that so much to ask?_ she thought desperately.

Apparently it was. Her request was not granted as she lay down, her head falling onto the crude pillow of rags. Indeed, those of the Undying Lands had long ceased to be terribly concerned with the affairs of the inhabitants of the Mortal Lands, not since the War of Wrath, in which the host of the West ultimately threw down Morgoth Bauglir and banished him to the Void.

Unexpectedly, a strong gust of wind blew outside, trapping the countless dust particles and whipping the ashes up into the air and in all directions. The gale roared through the window and into the home of the Mûlnothrim. Directly underneath what really was a square hole, Gúthwyn choked and gasped for cleaner air. The other workers were not unaffected, and it was quite some time before everyone was breathing regularly.

Abaudia, in particular, was encountering numerous problems with these events as age leaned more heavily upon her. She was the last to recover, her hacking cough a source of nervousness from Cobryn, who had leapt up to be at her side when she appeared to be in trouble.

"Breathe," he instructed her soothingly, his hands reassuringly placed on her shoulders. "There you are, take it easy…" Everyone in the dwelling was watching, fearing for her safety. However, their anxiety was unnecessary, and after a few tense minutes Abaudia was fine.

"There is still some life in me yet," she smiled. "But that one had me worried."

"I have not seen such a storm in a long time," Feride added. Gúthwyn observed this exchange with a heavy heart. If she did not die from the taxing work of her duties, then surely the ash-filled wind would be the end of her.

A few seconds later, Gwollyn and Regwyn came back, each clutching a large parcel and a small container. Cries of delight arose amongst the clan as they deposited their effects in front of Abaudia's bed.

"Yea, it is stew!" they exclaimed triumphantly as one, wiping their soiled faces on their sleeves.

_Stew!_ Gúthwyn repeated to herself. _This is much better than yesterday!_ For Saruman was no fool. He knew that by offering his workers no morning meal, they would have to receive a good-sized lunch. Despite the fact that it consisted of the same stale bread as that of dinner, and poorly made soup, it was a feast for the slaves who had long forgotten the taste of food from their homes.

In addition to the three loaves, inside the packages were nine tiny, wooden bowls, messily thrown on top of each other, but dishes nonetheless. _This is amazing_, Gúthwyn marveled. _I did not know that such food was ever offered to lowly laborers._

"Calm down!" Abaudia exclaimed. "Seat yourselves!" Those who had risen up in excitement now sat back on their cots as quickly as they had gotten up. "Now I will divide everything evenly." As she began to do so, first ripping the bread into thirds, Gúthwyn became aware that they were all, except perhaps Cobryn and Feride, staring greedily at the food, not unlike famished dogs that are forced to endure the torment of watching their masters eat mightily at a banquet.

Somewhat uncomfortable with this image, Gúthwyn remembered her manners and looked away, busying herself by absent-mindedly playing with her tunic. She smiled at the border lining the bottom: like green grass it was, over which horses ran as free as the eagles that dwelt in high-up crags of the Misty Mountains.

Glancing up, Gúthwyn saw that Abaudia had begun handing out the provender, starting first with the younger ones and working her way up. When she approached Gúthwyn, the daughter of Éomund thanked her kindly and took her share.

"Your welcome," Abaudia replied. Gúthwyn examined the contents of her portion of the stew. Realizing that she had not been given a spoon, she located Abaudia by Cobryn's cot and was about to ask for one when she noticed that no one else had one.

"You may begin," Abaudia announced as she sat down with her own share. Instantly the humans dug into their lunch, ravenous with a burning hunger that had gnawed at them for the whole morning. Not a sound was heard other than that of mouths busily chewing or slurping up the soup.

_We are savages_, Gúthwyn thought with an ironic smile, thinking about the Orcs who were eating unmentionable meat in their own maggot holes. The only ones who did not leave something to be desired in their eating habits were Feride, Cobryn, and Abaudia. Gúthwyn and Chalibeth, being but twelve years of age in comparison to them, were somewhat messier, although more refined than the younger children.

Three places away from her, Onyveth was having some trouble with her broth. The bowl had been filled up to the brim, and as she brought it to her mouth, her hands shook and over half of the lukewarm contents spilled out upon her lap. Her lower lip trembled, and she began wailing in frustration.

"It is all _gone_!" she shrieked. Gúthwyn's heart went out to this child, and, knowing that Onyveth needed the nutrition (such as there was) more than she did, she stood up and strode over to the girl.

"You may have mine," Gúthwyn offered, holding it out with two hands. "I am not hungry." Onyveth's eyes went as wide as saucers as she accepted the replacement.

"Thank you!" she said.

"Your welcome," Gúthwyn responded. "It is not full, so you should have no problem with it." Although it was masked by the noise of the surrounding diners, her stomach growled in disapproval about what she had just done.

"You did not need to do that," Chalibeth muttered as Gúthwyn sat back down on her thin mattress. "She will be expecting more help from you in the future."

"No," Gúthwyn answered. "Her bowl was too full. I do not think this will happen again."

"All right." Chalibeth ended the conversation with a shake of her head, clearly disbelieving Gúthwyn's words. _And she has every right to_, Gúthwyn reminded herself. _She has been here longer than I._

"Is anyone ready for some water?" Abaudia questioned the group, holding up the other bucket that Gwollyn and Regwyn had brought in. A chorus of assent rippled through them in response, and Feride took the container from Abaudia and started making the rounds.

As before, the drink was taken in the hands, there being no cups to hold it in. Gúthwyn was glad that she had not been assigned to duty in the forge, for she was not as grimy or filthy as she had been the day before. _Although_, she thought ruefully,_ I doubt that the dirt has all gone away. Does anyone bathe here?_ Even as she contemplated the idea, her nose scrunched up in disgust, as if she could smell a foul, reeking odor emancipating from everyone.

Feride came to Gúthwyn, who was all too happy to be able to pour liquid down her throat. The bread had made her mouth dry, and, unlike in Edoras, where she had had everything brought to her instantly when she desired it, she had been forced to wait.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn spoke as Feride deposited some water into her cupped hands.

"Your welcome," Feride replied, moving on to Chalibeth.

"Now can we swordfight?" Lebryn begged after the last person had received their share of drink. "Please?" This word brought a smile to Feride's lips, something that rarely happened. Then again, Lebryn being polite when voicing his wants was just as unusual.

"Yes, get the sticks," Cobryn responded.

"Finally!" Lebryn cheered, hopping off of his cot and nearly diving underneath it. In a few seconds, he had emerged, proudly holding the two strips of wood he had found earlier. Gúthwyn saw that there were a couple more under his makeshift bed. "Can I go first?" Lebryn pleaded, an innocent look upon his face suggesting that he had never disobeyed his elders.

"You may," Cobryn laughed. Lebryn grinned ecstatically, and Gúthwyn could not help but feeling amused.

"I want to fight with you!" he challenged.

"Keep in mind that we have only half an hour left," Feride cautioned them.

"Do not worry," Cobryn assured her easily as he took one of the sticks from Lebryn. Positioning themselves in between the two rows of cots, they were allowed a little less than two feet's width of dueling space, and ten paces in length. _How they will manage this is beyond me_, Gúthwyn thought, leaning forward to get a better view.

From the far end of the room, she heard Gwollyn and Regwyn's voices rise up together. "On guard—begin!" The atmosphere became energized as Cobryn and Lebryn moved backward and forward across the room, each waiting for an opening in their opponent's defense.

Suddenly Lebryn aimed a low, sweeping strike at Cobryn's knees. Easily jumping over it, the young man brought his crude weapon down towards Lebryn's head, where the boy neatly blocked it.

"Get him, Lebryn!" Gwollyn and Regwyn cheered. Across from them, Onyveth was making her own racket, although whom she wanted to win no one could tell. Gúthwyn noted that, other than Chalibeth, who appeared to be enamored with this activity, the rest of the women only looked politely interested, and occasionally rather bored.

Meanwhile, the fight between Cobryn and Lebryn was becoming intense. Cots were now fair game as Lebryn climbed onto Onyveth's, much to her glee, seeking for more height. From there, he was able to meet his stick with Cobryn's and send all strikes downward, which would eventually leave his adversary's head open for a "beheading," a move signaling the end of the fight and Lebryn's victory.

However, Cobryn had the advantage, and everyone knew it. The older slave had much more experience, and had more strength and stamina than Lebryn. In addition, his longer arms enabled him to reach further than the boy could, and height always helped anyone. Already Cobryn's fierce strikes were becoming more difficult for Lebryn to deflect, and the boy was slowly, yet surely, tiring.

Almost faster than the eye could see, Lebryn dove off of the bed and aimed a swift jab at Cobryn's stomach. With astounding reflexes, Cobryn met the stick with a blow that knocked Lebryn's makeshift sword clean out of his hands. Time seemed to slow as the wood flew through the air and over Abaudia's head, its flight broken by the wall nearest the door. It fell, clattering, to the ground, and Gúthwyn knew that the end was near.

Lebryn attempted to scramble to his right to retrieve his stick, but Cobryn swung his own downward and it landed across Lebryn's neck.

"Would you like a hand up?" Cobryn questioned, over the cheering of the other workers. Lebryn shook his head, but he was not nearly as furious as Gúthwyn had expected him to be. It seemed that sword fighting was Lebryn's one passion in life, and he appreciated that he had to play by the rules.

After Lebryn had gotten to his feet, the two grasped each other's arms in the fashion of warriors, much like Gúthwyn had seen Éomer and his friends do when they were younger and learning how to use weaponry.

"Who wants to go next?" Cobryn inquired, looking around for a volunteer.

Almost instantly, Gwollyn and Regwyn had stood up. "We will!" they offered. Relinquishing their sticks to the brothers, Cobryn and Lebryn sat back on their cots, leaning against the wall and regaining their strength.

This time, it was the voice of Chalibeth that said, "On guard—begin!" Wasting no time with sizing up their enemy, as Cobryn and Lebryn had, Gwollyn and Regwyn rushed into the fight. _They have much room for improvement_, Gúthwyn observed with a sharp eye. Although many clumsy errors were made on each side in the time span of a few minutes, neither of them seemed to know how to gain the upper hand.

"A quarter of an hour left," Feride warned after the two had been sparring for a short period. At this, Regwyn looked up, a distraction that Gwollyn used to lightly place his stick on his brother's throat, effectively terminating the skirmish. Onyveth shrieked with joy, although it seemed like she had not seen who had won.

Chalibeth groaned. "It is always a pattern," she muttered to Gúthwyn. "Last time, it was Regwyn, before that it was Gwollyn, and prior to that, Regwyn was triumphant. Although how they organize that I do not know."

"They will not benefit from pre-arranged battles," Gúthwyn sighed. "It is too bad."

"The pair are inseparable," Chalibeth continued. "In my time here I have not once seen them apart."

"Gúthwyn!" they heard Lebryn cry. Once more he stood in the middle of the dwelling, waving the two sticks in the air.

"Excuse me?" Gúthwyn queried as she and Chalibeth looked up.

"Your turn! I want to fight you," Lebryn stated. The look in his eyes was easy to read: he wanted to win, and that was why he had chosen her. Gúthwyn blushed with embarrassment and anger, but she knew that he was right. One lesson was not enough to turn her into an expert wielder of a sword.

"Are you coming?" Lebryn asked impatiently. Gúthwyn glanced at Chalibeth who nodded encouragingly.

"It ends when a 'sword' is pointed at someone's neck," Chalibeth informed her. Nervously, Gúthwyn rose to her feet and walked to the middle of the room, an action that took hardly a second to complete. Lebryn handed her one of the strips of wood and she shifted it to her right hand, experimentally swinging it through the air to test it out. She was not fond of it.

_Well, my weapon is only a stick_, Gúthwyn thought, her heart pounding as she looked at Lebryn. He wore a smirk upon his face as he calmly moved into a defensive position. Following suit, Gúthwyn met his eyes. _If nothing else_, she decided, _I will beat him in a staring contest._

"On guard…" Cobryn's command registered dimly in her head as the slaves, one by one, disappeared, until the only two people left in the room were Lebryn and her.

She never heard the word 'begin'. Lebryn lunged at her, using a downward slash that was meant to cut across her ribs. As she barely managed to block it, everything that she had learned with her family came back to her, as if it had been a day ago. When Lebryn came at her again, this time with a sidestroke, she leaned out of the way and neatly parried the following blows that were aimed at her.

Gúthwyn was surprised that she had not lost yet. _I suppose I was taught better than I realized_, she mused. Jerking her out of her thoughts, Lebryn jabbed his stick towards her stomach, a strike that she avoided just in time. _Concentrate!_ her mind screamed at her. Narrowing her eyes, Gúthwyn decided to move on the offensive side. Dodging what was meant to be a stab to her side, she thrust her stick in between Lebryn's right leg and a cot, turned it so it was resting against the back of his calf, and pulled hard.

Lebryn's knees buckled, and he fell to the floor, but he was up instantly, and Gúthwyn had no time to claim her advantage. Enraged that the new slave was not going to be as easy to defeat as he had hoped, he lashed out at her with a series of attacks that were quite beyond Gúthwyn's skill to stop. She found herself being forced to the back wall, still desperately trying to impede his angry assaults.

Suddenly, their sticks met together and held, bringing their faces mere inches apart. Beads of sweat were forming on their foreheads, and both were short of breath. They stood there for a moment, blood pounding in Gúthwyn's ears as she searched for a path to victory. She knew she was outmatched, even though Lebryn had in theory 'lost a limb,' but still she looked. Slowly, Lebryn's mouth stretched into a smile that Gúthwyn could not figure out. Quizzically, she stared at him.

In two seconds she was lying on her back, her wounds from the Orc's whip agonizingly stinging in protest. Lebryn had wrapped his foot around her ankle and yanked it upwards, causing her to fall to the ground. It was a dirty trick, but she had done a similar maneuver, and therefore had no right to complain.

She struggled to regain her feet before Lebryn could end the fight, but the pain slowed her down and Lebryn poked her, not so gently, at the base of her neck.

"I win," he pronounced haughtily. Instantly, the occupants of the dwelling returned to her vision, applauding at the entertainment their lengthy clash had brought. Unlike Cobryn, Lebryn did not offer her a helping hand, and instead turned away, leaving her to fend for herself. Gúthwyn got up, making every effort to mask the discomfort her back was causing her.

"Good job," she complimented Lebryn, but he did not look back at her. Shrugging her shoulders, she made to go sit back down, but before she could, Feride gasped and said,

"We must be going!" Instantly the whole clan was on the move, surging towards and out the door. Once again, Gúthwyn found herself next to Chalibeth as the group strode down the path.

"You did well with Lebryn," her friend commented. "Have you trained much before?"

"No," Gúthwyn replied. Then she frowned, and restated her sentence. "Well, a little, actually. On my twelfth birthday I received one lesson from my family, and that was it."

"Lebryn was certainly surprised that you did not go down as easily as he, and, I am sorry to admit it, the rest of us, thought." Gúthwyn looked at Chalibeth with an unhappy face, but then she sighed, knowing that it was not their fault.

"That is all right," she replied. "It has happened before." As she spoke, an image of Tun when he was eight, the same age as Lebryn, came flashing into her head. Tun… he had been her best friend for so long. She wondered how he had felt when news had reached the common people that Gúthwyn, niece to the king, had been taken captive. _Perhaps he has already found another companion_, she thought, her shoulders sagging at the very idea. _Although, who could blame him if he did?_

"What is wrong?" Chalibeth asked, noting the sad, wistful expression on Gúthwyn's face.

"I am just remembering one of my friends," the daughter of Éomund responded. "I wish I could have seen him before I was taken from my family." Chalibeth nodded, but wisely chose not to press the matter. Changing the subject, she asked, "How has your first full day been so far?"

"It has been fine, with the exception of the Serpent." Gúthwyn shivered as she thought of their brief encounter in the dark study. As she spoke, the group began circling around Orthanc. A cluster of Orcs watched their progress from nary two yards away, their backs to the mountains as they jeered at them with hoarse laughs and crude speech. Onyveth looked frightened, and she clutched Feride's leg tightly. This action amused the Orcs, and one of them strode forward to the clan and planted himself in front of the pair.

"Scared of my troop?" he questioned tauntingly, leaning close to the young girl, allowing her a full view of the many scars that crossed his flesh and his yellowed teeth caked in dry blood. Onyveth screamed in horror, and Feride picked her up, determinedly walking away from her tormentor. The expression on her face, however, said that there was nothing she would have liked to do better than to march back and murder them all.

"Ignore them," Chalibeth warned Gúthwyn as they, in turn, passed the band of Orcs. Gúthwyn did not reply, but she could not stop her fists from clenching by her sides in her disgust at their antics. _Terrorizing a child for their own entertainment is awful_, she thought, her eyes on the now sobbing Onyveth.

Before long, they had entered the fortress and were starting their duties. Cobryn, recalling Gúthwyn's discomfort at the hands of Gríma the Serpent, tactfully gave her another area of the fourth floor to work on. But it was an unnecessary act of kindness, for Serpent Tongue made no appearance to trouble them that afternoon. The three hours, though long and tedious, passed by without event, and soon the slaves were heading back down the stairs and outside.

The Orcs had disappeared while the group worked. Gúthwyn was grateful for this, as she, Cobryn, and Chalibeth had finished earlier than the rest of the Mûlnothrim, and were returning to the dwelling alone. The mid-afternoon sun was struggling to pierce the noxious atmosphere, and Gúthwyn felt a few faint rays grazing the right half of her head.

In just moments, they had walked into the dwelling. Cobryn and Chalibeth immediately sat on their cots, hoping to scavenge a few moments' rest, but Gúthwyn retrieved one of the sticks that Lebryn had stowed under his bedding and twirled it around, performing the few basic strikes that she had learned.

"Do you take pleasure using weapons?" Cobryn questioned after awhile, as he observed her movements. Glancing up, Gúthwyn blushed.

"Yes," she started to reply. "Well, I have hardly learned how to wield a sword, but I enjoy it."

"I could teach you more," Cobryn offered, recognizing the potential that this girl had. When Chalibeth had joined the workers, he would have helped her as well, but though her hand-eye coordination was excellent and she was a fair opponent, she had never seemed particularly interested.

"Really?" Gúthwyn asked eagerly.

"Of course," Cobryn responded, glad to see such excitement in the twelve-year-old. "It would have to be during our lunch break, however, since that is the longest." As if to prove his point, the rest of the slaves came streaming in. Feride glanced around the room and then looked back at Cobryn.

"You should have gotten our meal," she informed the slightly older laborer. "We have scarcely half an hour in which to eat."

"Given the lack of food we receive, that is more than enough," Cobryn retorted, although not unkindly.

As Lebryn neared his cot, his eyes fell upon Gúthwyn, who was still holding one of the sticks in her hand. "What are you doing?" he demanded furiously, storming forward and snatching the object out of her hand.

"Lebryn!" Feride exclaimed. "Is it completely useless to attempt to discipline you?" But Lebryn made no answer, for he was still standing, his arms folded across his chest, waiting for a reply from the daughter of Éomund.

"I was practicing with it," Gúthwyn explained, bewildered at this attitude from the younger boy. This did not come across so well, and Lebryn stamped his foot on the ground angrily.

"You cannot do that! It is _my_ stick, under _my_ cot." Gúthwyn's cheeks became red, for she realized that he had a point.

"We share them," Cobryn corrected Lebryn. "Gúthwyn has every right to use them at her will."

"But, Cobryn!" Lebryn protested, pouting as he did so.

"What?" Cobryn prompted him to finish the sentence. Lebryn stood there for a moment, casting about for the right words, and then with a frustrated, suffering sigh threw the wood underneath his makeshift bed.

"Leave me alone," he growled at Gúthwyn, who was still uncomfortably standing five feet away. "I do not want to talk to you." Flushing with anger and embarrassment, Gúthwyn turned and strode back to her cot. Bending down, she adjusted the flimsy mattress. In doing so, her necklace slid out from underneath her shirt and hung over the ground. Straightening up, she placed it once more below her tunic and sat down.

"I would hide that well if I were you," Chalibeth cautioned Gúthwyn as Feride and Onyveth were sent outside to gather the clan's meager dinner. "Anything of value will be confiscated and handed over to the master." Gúthwyn paled, and instinctively she pressed her hand over her throat. The necklace was the only bit of home she had left, with the temporary exception of her clothes.

"You are right," she agreed, scanning the room to see if the other slaves had noticed anything unusual about her apparel. All of them were lying down, their eyes wearily closed, and had not seen or listened to the twelve-year-olds' exchange. Chalibeth followed their example, but Gúthwyn remained in a sitting position. To pass the time, she tried to remember all of the songs she had been taught when she was younger. One in particular remained fixed in her mind.

Where now the horse and the rider? Where is the horn that was blowing?  
Where is the helm and the hauberk, and the bright hair flowing?  
Where is the hand on the harp string, and the red fire glowing?  
Where is the spring and the harvest and the tall corn growing?  
They have passed like rain on the mountain, like a wind in the meadow;  
The days have gone down in the West behind the hills into shadow.  
Who shall gather the smoke of the dead wood burning,  
Or behold the flowing years from the Sea returning?

Gúthwyn sighed audibly. She thought now that Rohan was heading for dark times. Chalibeth held an intense dislike for her uncle's new councilor, and Gúthwyn believed that the hatred was well placed, whoever the man may have been. He seemed like Gríma—sword fighting had pushed her fear of him out of her mind for the time being, but she still remembered with terrifying clarity his stinking breath, and his roaming hands. Recalled every word that he had spoken. Could easily point out every place he had touched her, places that seemed now to be covered in irremovable dirt. And then, with a sudden flash of comprehension, she remembered.

_Gríma Wormtongue is the king's advisor!_ She could not believe she had forgotten. She and her family had finished her sword-fighting lesson early because the man was to be inducted into Théoden's service. It was next to impossible to think that there were two men of the same name, living in the same region. _But it cannot be_, Gúthwyn thought to herself. _My uncle would never allow such a man within nine _leagues _of his hall._

In the midst of her despair, Feride and Onyveth returned with the clan's meager meal. With only fifteen minutes to do so, the workers swiftly ate their food, and the only sound was that of muffled chewing. When everything had been cleared up, the empty parcels were handed back to Feride and Onyveth to dispose of on their way to the Warg stables. It was time to resume their duties.

Three hours later found the slaves returning, their footsteps dogged with slumber and exhaustion. Gúthwyn, though more awake than the others, was beginning to feel the strain of their labor, a weight that would gnaw upon the mind and spirit for countless years until the body could not even be moved to get up from their bed.

"I am ready for a long, relaxing rest," Chalibeth declared the instant they had entered the dwelling. Upon saying so, she threw herself on the cot, shut her eyes, and gave her consciousness up to the land of the oblivious. The others followed suit; Gúthwyn, however, did not fall asleep immediately. Darkness ensconced Nan Curunír, brought about faster by the relentless smog emitted from the forges. And still she remained, lying on her makeshift bed, craning her neck to gaze outside.

For one brief instant, she fancied that she had seen a small, sparkling object in the sky, its luminosity managing to penetrate the gloom that was manifest in Isengard. _It must be a star_, she mused. Once, a long time ago, someone had told her about them. _They were created by a mighty queen, before the Ages of this world_, she had heard. _Whenever you see one, you should make a wish. But be careful! If you tell anyone of your desires, they will slip away faster than one of the Mearas bolting in fright._

At this she had giggled at the mental image, and her storyteller had enveloped her in a warm, loving hug. Gúthwyn did not remember their identity, but she liked to believe that it was her mother, Théodwyn as she had been in the days where sickness and grief had not yet taken her life.

Glancing back at where the glimmer of brightness had been, she closed her eyes. _I wish I was back at home_, she prayed. When that was done, she looked towards the heavens again. The star twinkled once more, and then disappeared with a flash of light. Content for the moment, Gúthwyn let everything darken around her, and cast herself into a place of dreams.


	11. The First Fear

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Ten:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Here, I would like to comment on the dialogue used between Gúthwyn and the other, younger slaves. I am aware that it seems very advanced for children, and the lack of contractions (i.e. 'can't', 'won't', etc) may look strange, but in _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, words tended to be more eloquent than what they are now. In addition, I have observed that with the exception of the hobbits, contractions were generally not used when speaking. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created/housed. If anyone has any suggestions concerning this assumption, I'd be grateful to hear them. Sword fighting will be coming up later on, and I will tell you now, I am no expert on the subject. What I know I've learned from karate lessons and various websites. Furthermore, I'd also like to disclaim the teachings revealed later on. The exchange was not made up by me- it comes from the movie "Enough".Finally, I would like to apologize for the lengthy eighth chapter. I am sorry that it was longer than chapter seven, which I honestly wished to avoid, but in describing one day there were really no good stopping points.

**Chapter Ten**

Light. Gently, cautiously, it rested on Gúthwyn's eyelids, making the young girl softly groan. Slowly, but surely, the annoyance grew stronger, until Éomund's daughter was forced to wake up.

"Curse the sun," she muttered to herself as she lay on her cot. The machines were just being set up, loud, sporadic noises giving testimony to the fact, and the smoke was not yet preventing an unobstructed view of the skies above.

"You may say that, but soon you will be wanting it to shine all day, without the ash to choke it," a voice spoke near her. Sitting up, Gúthwyn searched for its source, and located Chalibeth leaning against the wall with a smile on her face. "As before, my friend, you are the latest sleeper."

"I can get up early," Gúthwyn protested, yawning as she stretched her arms. Chalibeth gave a chuckle of disbelief. "When there is motivation."

"And what finer motivation could there be than an exciting day of thankless work?" Chalibeth wanted to know, the sarcasm evident in her speech.

"Girls!" Feride called from the other end of the room. "There will be enough time for chatter during our afternoon meal. Now come along! We still have to divide the tasks." Moaning again, Gúthwyn willed herself off of the bed. Standing up, she arched backwards and heard more than one satisfying _crack_. Chalibeth did not blink, but Abaudia clucked her tongue, although she said nothing.

"I, Gwollyn, and Regwyn will clean the tower; Feride, Lebryn, and Onyveth shall work in the forge. That leaves Cobryn, Chalibeth, and Gúthwyn with the care of the Wargs." Abaudia assigned the chores swiftly, knowing that they were supposed to report for duty soon. "Cobryn, a word with you, please." The rest of the slaves began streaming out of the door, not a few groaning about their jobs.

As she followed them, Gúthwyn glanced back at Cobryn and Abaudia. "Remember," she heard the elderly woman whisper, much as she had done to Feride the previous day. Not wanting to seem like she was eavesdropping, Gúthwyn looked ahead of her once more and focused on the path that they were taking, reminding herself to question Cobryn about it: she had completely forgotten to do so yesterday.

Five minutes later, they were nearing the steps leading into Orthanc. Although Abaudia and Cobryn had caught up with the rest of the laborers a while ago, Gúthwyn had decided to wait until they were alone before pressing the matter about the older slave's warning. She was not sure if Abaudia would have appreciated a display of eminent curiosity.

This time, it was the other workers who began ascending the stairs when the time for separation came. Cobryn began leading her and Chalibeth towards the stables, turning away from the tower and heading down another path. Gúthwyn hurried to catch up with him, eager to hear the answer to her query.

"What did Abaudia caution you against?" she spoke as she fell in step with him. Cobryn looked at her for a moment, as if he was judging her in some way. At last he replied,

"That is not for you to hear until you are older. For now, be content in knowing that you are well protected." Contrary to what had just been stated, now Gúthwyn was feeling even more nervous about what lay ahead. She had not seen a Warg in some time, and for that she was grateful. But it worried her to know that there was something against which they were guarded. _Do the Wargs not have cages?_ she found herself wondering fearfully.

"Against what?" Gúthwyn voiced her thoughts.

"The Wargs," Cobryn responded in a tone suggesting that he was affirming the obvious.

"Then they are not penned in?" Gúthwyn inquired, a horrified expression crossing her features.

"They are," Chalibeth said as she came up from behind them. "But accidents happen. Look at Lebryn. His lower right arm is missing."

"We must hurry," Cobryn announced. "We do not want to be late." Gúthwyn and Chalibeth nodded as he picked up the pace and they adjusted theirs. They were coming close to the edge of the ring on the eastern side of Isengard. A large gate had been fused to the stone, and it was this that Cobryn made for. Gúthwyn detected a smell, almost like that of horses but by far the fouler, oozing through the miniscule crack between the bottom of the iron door and the ground.

Chalibeth and Cobryn seemed quite unperturbed by the stench, but Gúthwyn felt as if she was being suffocated. Turning her head away, she took a deep breath of clean air.

"You will get used to it," Chalibeth informed her. "But it is hard to bear at first."

"How can you tolerate it even now?" was Gúthwyn's only retort. Chalibeth shrugged as Cobryn moved up to the gate. Lifting the latch that was fastened in the exact center of the iron, he let go of it and then repeated the procedure two more times, producing an echoing banging noise.

A minute later, an Orc opened the door. Unlike those that patrolled the Nan Curunír, this one was much smaller, and decorated with even more twisting, terrific scars. His clothing consisted of little more than bones and fur, and left his whole midsection open to attack from the beasts he rode. This was one of the Warg-riders, a group of brutal cavalry, where each animal could outrun a horse at a small distance.

Sharkû was his name, and he was clearly the leader of the pack. The many wounds he had received while not dying lent to this status; the lack of armor indicated that he did not fear the Wargs and needed no protection from them at any time.

"Get in here!" the Warg-rider growled when he saw who they were. As soon as the workers had followed his direction, he closed the gate behind them, and they were thrown into darkness.

Gúthwyn was petrified at the very idea of being locked in a dark area with Wargs and their owners about, and she started to tremble in a blind panic. Something brushed her hand and she jumped almost a foot in the air, thinking that it was one of the heathen creatures circling around her.

"Do not worry," she heard Chalibeth whisper next to her. "Let your eyes adjust to the dim light." Gúthwyn took a deep breath to calm herself and became absolutely still, peering forth into the blackness. Slowly, she began to see shapes emerge in the shadows, and the flickering of a few torches hung in brackets upon the wall. These helped her immensely, and she was able to see the entire expanse of the chamber, with the noticeable exception of one corner whose shadows revealed nothing of what might be lurking in its depths.

The place was a cavernous room, extending as far back as the ring would allow: about forty feet, and twenty-five yards wide. All along the walls, with no break in their extension except for one wide path in running down the center of the hall, stood several large pens constructed out of wood and chains. Those materials were the only things holding back an onrush of the filthy, savage, slavering Wargs that had been crammed inside these cages.

In order to keep these animals from annihilating each other by placing them in one humongous enclosure, Saruman had ordered there to be no more than five hemmed in together on the side rows. However, on the far wall there were as many as fifteen of these Wargs, with much more space. The bullpens were made as miniscule as possible in order to fit more of these crossbreeds in the area. The resulting smell was that of disgusting, sweaty, crowded flesh, added to by the company of Orcs that acted as overseers.

The area that Gúthwyn stood in now had no Warg cages. Instead, the walls were lined with a collection of crooked weapons, including scimitars and knives, and a cluster of light, fearsome-looking armor.

"Quit starin' at them and get to work!" Sharkû barked, thrusting a bucket into Gúthwyn's hands. The stench coming from it was almost unbearable, and Éomund's daughter reeled before she could catch her breath and look at the contents: rotten, maggoty meat chunks of an indiscernible being. "MOVE!" Sharkû ordered, bringing her back to her senses with a quick flick of his whip. A shudder of pain ran through Gúthwyn's body as the leather fell upon her back, and she hurried to catch up with Cobryn and Chalibeth. They were unaware of her plight and had gone ahead of her.

"What are we supposed to do with this?" she asked when she was walking beside them, gesturing towards the 'food' (if indeed it could be called that) in her bucket.

"We feed the Wargs," Chalibeth told her. "Watch me." Lifting one of the pieces up with two of her fingers and avoiding the maggots that crawled over it, she flung it into a nearby cage. Immediately its inhabitants converged on the meal, jostling with each other for a bite. Small scuffles broke out, but when the last bite of their sustenance had disappeared down the throat of a particularly large Warg, they became still and silent, eyeing Chalibeth hungrily.

Gúthwyn shuddered in disgust. "That is all there is to it," Chalibeth spoke, "except that you should throw two into the cages you will be tending to, for there are more animals." Acknowledging comprehension, Gúthwyn nodded. "You can take the end. Cobryn and I will do the sides." Nodding, Gúthwyn left Chalibeth to her work and turned to the right, going down the trail that led to the far wall. She chanced to look up on her way there, and saw that the roof could not be viewed, so high above her was it.

At first she approached the dark corner, wondering if there were any Wargs to feed. She was surprised to see the faint outline of a humongous enclosure. However, no living creature could be observed, leading her to question their existence. Finally, after deciding that it was better to be safe than sorry, she tossed two lumps of meat in the general direction of the pens.

Coming to the first clearly visible pen, she gingerly picked up another maggot-encrusted slice. Cautiously, she walked close to the barrier that separated its occupants from the rest of the room. Her arm shaking, she held her offering between two of the chains, unable to reach over the top because it was nearly seven feet tall. Gúthwyn was not sure where she should drop them, and paused for a moment.

Apparently she was moving too slow for one of the Wargs, who, with a sudden motion, leaped forward and snatched them from her hand with his sharp teeth, causing her to shriek in surprise and stumble backward, tripping over her own feet. One of the Orcs glared at her, his fierce demeanor warning her to get back up or there would be consequences. Still in shock from the unexpected impatience of the animals, she regained her footing and saw Chalibeth watching her.

Smiling at her friend to say that everything was all right, despite the fact that her heart was still beating fast, Gúthwyn went on to the next enclosure. Once more, ten unblinking eyes observed her every pace, an action that Gúthwyn found quite unnerving. Swallowing her fear, she took two more chunks from the bucket and threw them into the midst of the Wargs, relieved when their attentions turned from her to their food.

And so on it went. Gúthwyn grew to hate this job, loathing it more than anything she had ever done before. The animals stared at her whenever she approached, and it took all of the courage she possessed to even look at them. The three hours crawled slowly by, a minute seeming to take a year to complete. The only times she felt a tiny semblance of safety were when she passed Cobryn and Chalibeth, who appeared to be quite calm in their surroundings.

At last, after what Gúthwyn thought to be an eternity, their time was up. She felt suddenly weak-kneed, and was barely able to place her container along with her companions' against the wall nearest to the exit. When the gate was opened, an incredible wave of relief consumed her, and she had never been so happy to walk away from something. If Éowyn and Éomer had come back from the dead to rescue her, even that would not suffice to make her more light-hearted than she was now.

_I bet Éomer would murder all of those monsters with his bare hands_, she thought proudly, her legs beginning to recover their former strength.

The three laborers marched quietly for a while, each preoccupied with their own musings. Eventually, however, Chalibeth broke the silence.

"What did you think of that job?" she interrogated Gúthwyn.

"I despised it," Gúthwyn ground out vehemently, with a hateful tone in her voice disturbing for a twelve-year-old. "I never want to go back there again. I would rather be stranded on an island with a thousand, lusting Serpents than feed those… those _things_ one more time." Cobryn turned around to face her, a shocked look coming over his features.

"You disliked it that much?" he questioned. "I do not remember having those feelings when I first did that duty. What about you, Chalibeth?"

"No…" Chalibeth admitted. "My least favorite task is the cleaning." She did not need to state the reasons; or, specifically, reason, for it was obvious.

As they carried on their conversation, they were heading down the path leading to Orthanc's door. They could see the other slaves walking out, chattering animatedly now that they had some freedom for an hour. The three of them joined this group, and soon Cobryn and Chalibeth were speaking with some of the workers. Gúthwyn, however, remained silent, and concentrated on her musings instead.

Already she was dreading her next shift. She felt that she could not bear to go back into that hell pit and give the abominable creatures the meat that enabled them to survive. _Perhaps Éomer _will_ come back from the dead, and truly destroy them all_, she thought wistfully, although she understood that such an event would never happen. For now, she contented herself with the fantasy, content to let it carry her all the way to the Mûlnothrim dwelling.


	12. Weak No Longer

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Eleven:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Here, I would like to comment on the dialogue used between Gúthwyn and the other, younger slaves. I am aware that it seems very advanced for children, and the lack of contractions (i.e. 'can't', 'won't', etc) may look strange, but in _The Lord of the Rings_ trilogy, words tended to be more eloquent than what they are now. In addition, I have observed that with the exception of the hobbits, contractions were generally not used when speaking. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created/housed. If anyone has any suggestions concerning this assumption, I'd be grateful to hear them. Sword fighting will be coming up later on, and I will tell you now, I am no expert on the subject. What I know I've learned from karate lessons and various websites. Furthermore, I'd also like to disclaim the teachings revealed later on. The exchange was not made up by me- it comes from the movie "Enough".Finally, I would like to apologize for the lengthy eighth chapter. I am sorry that it was longer than chapter seven, which I honestly wished to avoid, but in describing one day there were really no good stopping points.

**Chapter Eleven**

When she entered the room, just behind Chalibeth, Gúthwyn saw that Abaudia and Onyveth had not accompanied the rest of the clan.

"They have gone to get our food," Cobryn explained to her. "Would you like to practice your sword fighting now?" Lebryn shot a look at him from where he sat, apparently not too pleased that the young man had asked a girl to spar instead of him.

"Yes, if we have time," Gúthwyn replied. Cobryn retrieved two of the wooden strips and tossed one to Gúthwyn. Catching it, she moved to the center of the room, in the middle of the small aisle.

"What have you learned so far?" Cobryn queried. Gúthwyn reached into her memory, recalling the last day she had spent with her family; the happiest day in her entire life.

"A few of the jabs and blocks, along with a little footwork and some primitive parrying," she answered him. Cobryn nodded.

"Then let us review the strikes," he suggested. "You aim them, and try to hit me." No longer the five-year-old who had shied away from punching her much stronger cousin in the stomach, Gúthwyn agreed. Keenly aware that everyone was watching her, no matter how languidly, she launched into a series of attacks. Barely having to move, Cobryn easily deterred them from their original course. Slightly frustrated with his calmness, Gúthwyn questioned,

"May we do those again?"

"Of course," Cobryn responded. Once more, Gúthwyn attempted to get within his guard. This time, though, she purposely reversed the two horizontal cuts, aiming first for his right shoulder and then for his left. Taken aback, Cobryn still managed to stop them, but he certainly looked as if he did not expect even this simple trick from her. "Very good," he complimented Gúthwyn. "You have taken note of Lebryn's actions, I see."

The sentence was meant to be in jest, but Lebryn glowered at Cobryn, and the light-hearted moment was lost. "Now you block," the older slave said, before lifting his stick and performing the same swipes that Gúthwyn had done. The daughter of Éomund was hard put to it to not get struck, as Cobryn's blows were much more efficient and swift than hers. When he at last lunged forward with an assault that would have been meant to gut her in real life, Gúthwyn completely forgot the appropriate way to prevent it and was forced to jump out of harm's way.

"Better," Cobryn praised. "You managed to avoid them all. Excellent. Do you remember now how you were supposed to check the final hit?"

"Yes."

"Then we shall do them—" Cobryn began, but stopped when Abaudia and Onyveth returned to the dwelling, bearing with them the parcels and containers for their lunch. Lebryn abruptly stood up and marched over to Cobryn and Gúthwyn, yanking the sticks out of their hands, for which he earned a soft punch on the back from the former.

Gúthwyn sat down on her bed as Abaudia started dividing their meal. It suddenly occurred to her that she was starving. Only through fear of the Wargs and pleasure at being taught by someone she respected in an art that she loved had she been able to ignore it. _Hopefully this time Onyveth will not spill her soup_, she thought with a grin.

At length, Abaudia was found distributing each portion of the noontime repast. Gratefully, Gúthwyn accepted hers, setting aside the stew and starting on the bread first. To her famished mind, this food seemed worthy of the highest praise, though it was poor sustenance and certainly would not have sufficed in the Golden Hall of Rohan's king.

The soup was a savior to her stomach, but Gúthwyn recognized it to have a terrible taste, even in this stage where she was grateful for any edible provision. She remembered that once, when she was ten and Éowyn fourteen years of age, her older sister had tried her hand at cooking. Éomund's youngest child had been playing with Tun, and had not had the chance to sample the broth, but Éomer, who was not so lucky, had become sick for three days. Thereafter Éowyn had elected to stay away from the kitchen.

She chuckled as the memory came back to her, and then noticed that Chalibeth was looking at her quizzically.

"What can you possibly find to laugh about?" she inquired.

"I was thinking of the time when my sibling made a meal, quite similar to this, and my brother could not get out of bed for some days afterwards," Gúthwyn replied, her smile spreading wider across her face by the minute. She had not been there to see it, but apparently the sight of Éomer suddenly turning green, clamping his hand over his mouth, and running for the nearest chamber pot was very laughter inducing.

"I see," Chalibeth answered, a ghost of a grin crossing her features. Gúthwyn thought that her friend looked very pretty when she was happy, but such moments were becoming rarities.

The rest of their nourishment was taken in silence, and five minutes passed before Lebryn had finished and wanted to know if they could swordfight. Abaudia shook her head, for she saw that Onyveth and Feride were not yet done. Lebryn turned his unsettling gaze upon them, staring ceaselessly until the last drops of liquid were gone from their bowls.

"Now can we?" he asked eagerly when the woman and child had put their dish to the side.

"You would engage in combat without drink?" Abaudia questioned mildly as she stood up and retrieved the water bucket. The look on Lebryn's face clearly confirmed that which had been spoken, but he did not say anything, for he realized the sense of complete nourishment before activity. So he waited, albeit impatiently, as the eldest of the clan went around and presenting each slave with some water.

Gúthwyn almost did not take the offering, for her hands had touched that foul, unnamable meat of the Wargs, but like Lebryn, she knew that it was better to be physically prepared for their difficult duties than to suffer a greater torment throughout the shift. Thanking Abaudia, she let the fluid be poured onto her hands, and drank it quickly before it overflowed.

"Now?" Lebryn repeated upon seeing everyone receive his or her water, his aura stating that he would become furiously angry if his wish was to be denied again.

"You may," Abaudia responded as she moved back to her cot.

"Yes!" Lebryn exclaimed, lunging under his own bed to retrieve the sticks.

"They have but a quarter of an hour," Feride, ever the timekeeper, informed Abaudia.

"Let them enjoy what little of their childhood they have left to look forward to," Abaudia spoke in a low tone of voice. Feride nodded, understanding how sadly true those words were.

Meanwhile, as always, Lebryn and Cobryn were getting ready to spar each other. None of the workers minded this regularity: their fights were often the most exciting to watch, even though the outcome was usually the same. As the clash wore on, Lebryn would become tired, his energy and stamina not yet up to par with that of Cobryn. Using his superior strength, the young man would eventually win, but neither would grudge the expected turn of events.

And so it was today. Having had a grueling shift in the forge, Lebryn was even more lethargic than normal, and his blows were blocked by Cobryn as easily as if he had been holding reeds. However, he was not yet too weary for his own cunning tricks. Cobryn had backed him up against the wall, dealing out enough strokes to keep his opponent to busy to determine an escape route.

Experience, though, told Lebryn where to go. Instead of deterring a slash that Cobryn was sending his way, he avoided it altogether, and ducking down he dove under the other laborer's legs. Thus he was able to evade a nearly certain end to the skirmish through his speed and agility.

Cobryn whirled around before Lebryn could land a stroke on his neck, the motion naught but a blur to the eyes of their audience. The younger boy pulled back, taking a moment to catch his breath before rushing back into the fight with a series of well-placed attacks. Unfortunately for him, Cobryn would not soon tire, and was quite prepared for this new onslaught. None of Lebryn's assaults managed to find their way home.

With a sudden burst of speed, Cobryn leaped forward, thrusting aside another jab as he did so. Moving almost too fast for a normal human to catch, he broke through Lebryn's guard, kicked the slave's stick out of his hand, and placed his own at the base of his opponent's neck, effectively ending the round. Gúthwyn narrowed her eyes at the display of this efficient move. _I shall have to remember that_, she thought to herself as she stored the combination in her memory.

Cobryn and Lebryn gripped each other's arms, as they had done the previous day. It seemed to be some sort of ritual between the two, always carried out no matter whom the winner was.

"Good job," Cobryn said, as was also customary, though not necessarily just between these two. Lebryn did not reply, for he was breathing too heavily, but it was clear that he had heard and accepted the kind words.

"There are hardly seven minutes left," Feride warned.

"Who wants to go next?" Lebryn questioned, ignoring Feride's caution.

"Would you like to duel with me?" Chalibeth asked Gúthwyn.

"Of course," Gúthwyn agreed. Hearing their speech, Cobryn tossed Chalibeth his makeshift blade, Lebryn following suit with a deliberately wide throw to Gúthwyn, who barely managed to catch it.

Together, Gúthwyn and Chalibeth strode to the center of the room, facing each other from three feet's distance. Gúthwyn spent a few seconds testing out her stick, performing a few of the more simplistic cuts before she deemed herself ready. Taking a deep breath, she looked Chalibeth square in the eye, and waited for the starting command.

"On guard…" Cobryn started, at whose voice Gúthwyn felt the world outside of this small patch of floor slowly disappear. "Begin!"

Now she and Chalibeth were the only two people that were in this dimension. Gúthwyn stared at her opponent, moving slightly backwards into a defensive position whilst attempting to deduce the strengths and weaknesses of said person. Likewise, Chalibeth was doing the same, and it was not until they had both gained a good measure of their adversary's dexterity level that they went in for the attack.

With one swift motion, Chalibeth jabbed at Gúthwyn's shoulder. Just as quickly she blocked the maneuver and delivered a stroke meant to slash across Chalibeth's chest. From then on, the air about them was a blur of wood as they realized that only through speed could this combat be won, as they were both of equal caliber.

A minute later, the two of them were struggling in the limited space near their cots. Gúthwyn lunged forward, swinging her stick in an effort to hit it against Chalibeth's ribs. Hoping to avoid this strike, Chalibeth stepped away from it and tripped over her bed, falling down onto the blanket. Before Gúthwyn could claim a victory, the girl performed a backwards roll and was able to fend off the swooping motion of Gúthwyn's makeshift weapon.

"Nice," Gúthwyn gasped, tiny rivulets of sweat beginning to trickle down her face. Chalibeth nodded, and the two of them recommenced as she jumped off of the cot. For another short length of time, they parried across the floor, until the conflict seemed as if it would never end. The two of them were nearly identical in their strategic thinking, and, as a result, they could realize what the other was going to do and prepare a counterattack before said action was actually done.

_This is going nowhere_, Éomund's daughter thought to herself as she ducked under Chalibeth's stick, rendering her in a close enough proximity to be harmed in any way—if this had been a real contest, and not a pair of slaves' idle entertainment. An idea entering her head, Gúthwyn turned her back to Chalibet, grabbed her waist, and flipped her over her shoulder. _Now things are starting to look better_. Chalibeth was too shocked by this sudden, unexpected tactic to move, and Gúthwyn was not hindered when she placed her stick on the girl's neck.

Instantly, the occupants of the dwelling returned to focus, applauding, as was their wont, but Lebryn's eyes showed how furious he was at this surprising outcome.

"Where did you learn that?" he demanded, as Gúthwyn helped Chalibeth to her feet.

"I would like to know also," Chalibeth added. Once more Gúthwyn was uncertain, and she looked to the other workers for help.

"Was that not allowed?" she queried, scanning their faces for an answer.

"Well," Cobryn said, his facial expression suggesting that he was rather impressed, "until now, I have been the only one who has done it. I have not even taught Lebryn yet. So, you really did not break any of our own rules, meager and flexible as they are." Gúthwyn breathed a sigh of relief.

"Now you have to tell me how to do it," Lebryn glared, his eight-year-old self displayed by means of an angry pout. "It is not fair that she knows how and I do not."

"Put the pieces of wood away," Feride ordered, cutting off any further conversation. "We must return to our duties." Quickly, the two duelists shook hands in recognition of a struggle that has been fairly won.

"You did well," Chalibeth informed Gúthwyn whilst Lebryn snatched their sticks away and hid them underneath his bed.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, the faintest hint of a blush creeping up her cheeks. "I probably should not have thrown you, however."

"Aye, but then we would still be fighting, would we not?" Chalibeth retorted with a grin. Gúthwyn saw the point in her argument and did not press the subject any further. Almost as one, the clan headed out of the door and towards Orthanc, Lebryn still pestering Cobryn about further tutoring.

"Must we feed the Wargs _again_?" Gúthwyn wanted to know, a siege of dread settling itself on her as she thought about her current chore.

"Yes," Chalibeth answered. "They have food three times a day, as do humans." When Gúthwyn gave her a look, the laborer amended her statement. "Well, as do normal humans who are not bound to these weary tasks."

After that they fell into silence. As they drew ever closer to the Warg stables, the nausea in Gúthwyn's stomach escalated until she truly believed that she would be sick with each step forward. _Just one more shift after this_, she reminded herself, but that did not make her feel any better. Rather, it served only to smother her in despair at the very thought of six more hours' servitude to the animals.

"Come," Chalibeth's voice broke up her musings. Gúthwyn mentally shook her head, and saw that she had been standing before the door leading into the hall of the Wargs, unmoving, while Cobryn was knocking on the iron.

Now that she had returned to her senses, Gúthwyn was nearly overwhelmed by the stink, and her abdomen lurched in a wailing protest. No matter what Chalibeth had said earlier, Gúthwyn was positive that she would never become accustomed to the odor. _Not in a thousand years_, she confirmed, pressing her soiled hand against her nose to quiet her belly.

Chalibeth was still waiting, stationed a little over a yard ahead of her. She understood that the new slave was having some problems adjusting: she had experienced much of the same emotions when she was younger. She, however, was traumatized by the cleaning chore, while Gúthwyn abhorred the Wargs. Chalibeth could not help associating the creatures with something disastrous that would happen; something that loomed on the horizon, that which she could not avoid. But as of yet she could not discern the meaning of the jumbled message from her instincts, and she let the matter be.

Meanwhile, Sharkû now stood upon the threshold, shouting for the lazy workers to quit their talking and move inside, or face the dire consequences of refusal. Together, the laborers strode forward and plunged into the darkness of the cavern, entering a separate world where nothing was sacred, no one was safe, and to obey was to survive.

The time they spent in this place felt, to Gúthwyn, so long and arduous that she would not have been surprised if the Third Age had ended and the Fourth had begun. Once more, murderous eyes followed her everywhere, and the occasional bark of impatience sent her jumping into the air in terror. Nothing could have prepared her for this task. It verily was a place of madness, successfully instilling devastating fear in the mind of the beholder.

Gúthwyn had hoped that things such as this would be easier the second time around; she was horribly wrong. When finally, mercifully, by the grace of the Valar, it was their moment of departure, she could not move, so frozen was she by a blinding panic. Five lashes of the whip later, she managed to wobble along, under the careful observation of Cobryn, marked by his own personal concern for her well-being.

"Let me help you," he said as they passed through the doorway. Shaking her head, Gúthwyn stumbled away from him, bending over so that the upper half of her body was facing the ground. Placing her hands on her knees, she took several deep, shuddering breaths in an attempt to calm herself. _It is over_, she informed herself. _I have some time before the next round of this nightmare._

Straightening up, she looked into the worried faces of Cobryn and Chalibeth, managing with some effort to make a thin smile in hopes of alleviating their anxiety.

"I am all right now," she spoke.

"Your necklace," Chalibeth responded, indicating that, once more, the jewelry treasured by Gúthwyn above all else was visible to the greedy eyes of Saruman's servants. As Gúthwyn hastened to tuck it back into the folds of her tunic, Cobryn raised his eyebrows slightly at the sight of such an obviously expensive trinket, but elected to remain silent.

"We should move on," he reminded them, thinking of their early dinner which yet lay ahead. Three hours after this rest their chores would be done for the day, and they could look forward to a well-earned night's sleep.

Gúthwyn agreed with him, eager to place as much distance between herself and the Wargs' stable as possible. And so the slaves began walking back to their dwelling, each lost in their own thoughts. While Gúthwyn was preoccupied with the unnatural fear the Wargs had put in her, Chalibeth's musings were devoted to the cleaning task, which would come in just two short days.

Cobryn, meanwhile, was uneasy about the near future for his younger companions. Unlike Feride, they had not yet gained the maturity necessary to deal with the injustices that were just starting to be committed upon them. Although violation was an uncommon act that was not generally performed by the lower serfs of the White Wizard, it was also not entirely unknown.

Being a male, he did not know the full extent of the effects that these crimes had upon their victims. He did, however, recall with regret the carefree child that Feride had once been, and was saddened by the grim, stern woman she had become. She was now able to push her memories away from her, but that did not banish them from the dark house of her mind.

"Cobryn!" Gúthwyn waved her hand in front of his face. The older worker had slid into his own sentiments some time ago, and had appeared to not notice the fact that they were right in front of their home. "Are you there?"

With a start, Cobryn jerked himself into the present. "I am sorry," he apologized.

"What had you so inattentive to your surroundings?" Chalibeth wanted to know, looking at him curiously as she opened the door. Once again they were the first people to return to this room. As they entered in single-file, Cobryn shrugged his shoulders.

"I am so glad that we have finished for the time being," Gúthwyn exclaimed, sitting down on her cot in a state of immense relief.

"Aye," Chalibeth concurred as she flung herself upon her own bed. "Just a few more hours will find this day gone and us in a peaceful sleep!" At this statement, Gúthwyn sobered. Of late, she had been having trouble with this activity, her longing for home choosing this period to resurface with fresh waves. _I am beginning to wonder if any 'sleep' will come to me here_, she thought.

At that moment, the door burst open with a _slam_ as it hit the wall, announcing the arrival of the rest of the clan. First Lebryn stormed in, furious, as was his wont, over some small issue. Following behind him came Feride, bearing a tired Onyveth in her arms. Gwollyn and Regwyn walked in after, and last of all entered Abaudia.

"One of us will need to retrieve our dinner," she stated, looking around the dwelling for volunteers.

"I will go," Cobryn responded. "Come, Lebryn."

"No." Lebryn did not even look up from where he lay upon his cot.

"Whatever you say is irrelevant," Cobryn countered. "You know the rule."

"Gúthwyn will go with you," Lebryn retorted. "You seem to welcome her company more, anyway." Gúthwyn's cheeks turned red, although she did not believe the hateful words that Lebryn had just spoken.

"Would you like me to drag you?" Cobryn suggested, effectively ending the debate. With an audible sigh, Lebryn stood up and stomped out of the dwelling, leaving Cobryn to pick up the water bucket.

"Do you finally see why I feel the need to discipline him?" Feride queried.

"I merely wish to converse with him," came Cobryn's answer as he went outside. "We will be back soon!" he called as he shut the door, leaving the slaves to scavenge what little relaxation they could.

Cobryn's promise became truth five minutes later when he and Lebryn returned, bringing with them the laborers' dinner meal. As usual, it was divided by Abaudia, who was careful to give each person an equal share. A quarter of an hour later the sustenance had been completely devoured, in addition to their drink. Gúthwyn made a point of eating slowly, for she wished to savor that which had become a rarity: simple food, and water to wash everything down.

"Well," Feride said, looking out of the window and up towards the sky, "we should be heading back to our chores." A collective groan was uttered, by now hardly more than a reflex at the thought of yet more unpaid work.

Gúthwyn sighed, loathing the fact that she would be forced to go back to the Wargs, hating their very existence and desiring a violent, agonizing death for the person who first thought to produce them. She recalled what she had told Chalibeth and Cobryn earlier: _"I would rather be stranded on an island with a thousand, lusting Serpents than feed those… those _things_."_ She thought now that, although it had been a very extreme exaggeration on her part, it was not very far from the truth.

"Gúthwyn!" Chalibeth's voice penetrated her reverie. "Are you coming?" Mentally shaking herself, Gúthwyn glanced at her friend.

"Yes, I am," she replied softly, standing up and stretching at a snail's pace, hoping to prolong her short time of freedom before returning to what she was discovering to be her greatest fear by far.

Together the two girls made their way to the door, passing through it into the murky haze that had now collected within the ring. Although it was summer, and the sun still shone brightly over the ravaged Nan Curunír, only a few pale rays were able to pierce the gloom and lighten the hearts of Saruman's lowest servants. The others had become lost and tangled in the smoke, no more than a memory to those who could recall their own homes, homes they had before their capture.

Soon the Mûlnothrim clan had been divided, the majority of its members turning to ascend the stairs that lead into Orthanc. Cobryn, Chalibeth, and Gúthwyn, however, continued walking and struck the path that would take them to the Warg stables. Dread playfully stabbed Gúthwyn, leaping around her with delicate ease and diving back to produce more anxiety.

As Gúthwyn had known, the ensuing three hours passed by with speed to rival the oozing of mud across a near-horizontal ground. She thought that she would go mad under the unrelenting stares of the Wargs, accusing her of withholding their food, eyes suggesting that they would like nothing more than to have a feast consisting of _her_. Fear gnawed at the daughter of Éomund with a ruthless grip, each bite sending a wave of fright throughout her body.

By the time the three of them were released, its teeth had sunk in so far that when Gúthwyn inhaled the outside air, she promptly fell to her knees and retched uncontrollably. Immediately, Cobryn was by her side, holding her hair out of the way and trying to comfort her. Chalibeth was swift to follow, and when Gúthwyn had finished she was the first to question her about how she felt.

"Awful," came Gúthwyn's muffled response. Her head still hung over the ground, and her appearance showed that she was struggling to conceal her emotions, but to no avail.

"I can carry you," Cobryn informed her as he moved to help her stand. Gúthwyn flung out a hand to stop him—a memory had just come back to her.

"_You are worthless… nothing but a failure… you failed us…"_ The taunting voices of her family, from the dream she had had during her journey with the hunter, swirled around in her mind. _No_, Gúthwyn vowed silently, altering her breathing so that it was deep and slow. _I have failed before, but not this time: I will be weak no longer._

"Gúthwyn?" The concern in Cobryn's voice was clear. Remaining where she was for a little longer, Gúthwyn used those seconds to regain utter control of her body. When at last she lifted her head, her eyes burned with a fiery change that was astounding to Cobryn and Chalibeth.

"Thank you for your concern," she spoke, hoping that her voice sounded calm and steady. It did. Trusting her newfound strength, she gradually stood, hoping to keep this façade of preternatural neutrality alive. The terror of the Wargs still resided in her, despite its reduction—of that, she was certain—but her body was determined to display nothing of it. "I will manage my way to the dwelling," she continued.

Chalibeth looked at her shrewdly, knowing that her friend was building a wall of pretense about her.

"Are you sure?" she queried.

"Yes," Gúthwyn confirmed. "I am all right." As false as it sounded to her ears, she could think of nothing else to say. From their looks, her companions believed it as much as she did, but they let the matter be, preferring not to investigate the proud mind of their Rohirric friend.

That night, Gúthwyn was once more the last one of the clan awake. She lay, stretched upon her cot, thinking of Théodred and the many hours he had dedicated to training her. _I will not disappoint you_, she vowed to the heavens, hoping that the Valar would hear it and give her the strength keep her word.

The Warg obstacle she would overcome, in time. But until the day came when she could look at one of the hideous monsters and not flinch outwardly, she would keep up the masquerade, discarding the mask of fear and using in its place one of courage. _Cowardice is _not_ an option_, she told herself sternly.

As if in reaction to her silent statement, a silvery-white object streaked across the sky, its glow visible even though it was far above the ashes that choked the atmosphere in the Wizard's Vale. It was a shooting star, something Gúthwyn had never seen before. She took that as an omen of good meaning, a smile upon her face as she watched the light's progress. With one final vision of the rolling plains of Rohan in her mind, sleep enveloped her and she slid into its welcoming arms.


	13. Break

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twelve:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created/housed. If anyone has any suggestions concerning this assumption, I'd be grateful to hear them. Fighting will be coming up later on, and I will tell you now, I am no expert on the subject. What I know I've learned from karate lessons and various websites. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters- sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing.

**Chapter Twelve**

The cheering was loud, frenzied, and energetic as the two duelists moved back and forth across the small Mûlnothrim dwelling. As they had done for many weeks, months, Cobryn and Lebryn were engaged in a sword-fighting struggle. Their clash had been going on for some time now, neither of the opponents showing any signs of stopping, no matter how tired they may have been. The display of skill was fantastic.

Gúthwyn sat on her cot, observing their techniques with only half an eye. It had been nearly four years since she had been taken to Isengard, forced to serve as a slave under the wizard Saruman. Soon she would be sixteen, and yet, unlike most her age, she was not looking forward to such an event. It would only remind her of her twelfth birthday, one that had swiftly turned from the happiest point of her life to the start of hell.

She had to admit, though, that she had gotten used to this way of living. She still disliked it, but long ago she had come to terms with the fact that no one would come for her, that she would never leave the Nan Curunír. The work and toil may have been difficult at times, but as Gúthwyn grew in strength, maturity, and physicality, she also came to love each of her fellow workers like they were her extended family.

Her gaze fell on Onyveth, a girl who, at ten, was far older in many ways than she had been at six. The child's fear of Orcs had diminished, as she now knew to simply avoid them at all costs. Across the room from her lay Gwollyn and Regwyn, their concentration devoted to the spectacle ahead, watching Cobryn and Lebryn in awe and admiration. They were still rarely apart, but they understood now that even close brethren went down different paths in their lives. While Regwyn, nearly fourteen, was proving himself to be the most intelligent of the pair, Gwollyn, a year older, was the better combatant, and devoted many hours to honing his talent with a blade.

Gúthwyn caught a glimpse of Abaudia. The elderly woman was leaning against the wall, her eyes closed, trying to have a few moments' rest. She was much the same as she had been when the daughter of Éomund was became a part of the clan. Nevertheless, Gúthwyn often worried for her. Abaudia claimed that she still felt vigorous and healthy, but they were obvious lies. It saddened Gúthwyn to think that Abaudia might not have much time left in her life.

"Five minutes, and then we have our afternoon duties," Feride warned everyone. Her face had the tired, worn look of someone aged before her time. One might think her almost thirty, but in truth she had just reached her twenty-first year. Gúthwyn had did not know her as well as she would have liked, but then again, Feride hardly spoke of herself to anyone. Onyveth was the only person capable of making her smile, and it was only occasionally that the sparkle reached her eyes and she was truly happy.

Suddenly, Cobryn took a swipe at Lebryn's feet, forcing the boy to jump over the stick. Before his younger adversary could make use of his advantage, he straightened up and was able to easily block the blow that Lebryn had sent his way.

"Get him, Cobryn!" Onyveth screamed, her face wild with excitement. Cobryn, now twenty-two and close to his prime, was still the clever, kind-hearted, and compassionate man who had protected Gúthwyn when she was vulnerable. His prowess as a swordsman was remarkable—he remained undefeated in the laborers' practice skirmishes, until very few were willing to face him. Gúthwyn held him in high esteem. Long ago, he had vowed to guard both her and Chalibeth from the Serpent; however, such a promise was unnecessary. Gríma Wormtongue had not been seen in Orthanc since Gúthwyn's first week.

Lebryn, expertly wielding his 'weapon', deflected a strike aimed at his right shoulder. He was not yet growing weary, his endurance having improved tremendously through his battles with Cobryn. Perhaps the most changed out of the entire group, Lebryn was no longer the fuming, grumpy boy of eight that he had been. Now he was twelve, and although quick to grudge and slow to forget, his anger was not as potent as it once was, and now he was often without a scowl on his face. Gúthwyn and he were now friends, Lebryn having apologized for the harsh way he had treated her—shortly after she had defeated him fairly in a duel.

"Who do you think will triumph?" Chalibeth asked Gúthwyn, yanking her out of her musings. The daughter of Éomund merely shrugged, and as Chalibeth returned her attention to Cobryn and Lebryn, Gúthwyn observed her closest friend. With the absence of Serpent Tongue prolonged, Chalibeth was now at ease when cleaning Orthanc, and was not afraid of what lurked behind closed doors. The year before, in the midst of a tearful collapse, she had told Gúthwyn the full extent of what Gríma had done to her. Gúthwyn had supported her in this time of need, and soon after the two had become all but sisters.

Just then, Lebryn thrust his stick towards Cobryn's abdomen, a stroke that would have killed a slow-moving person. But Cobryn leapt to the side, and almost faster than the eye could follow, he grabbed Lebryn's arm and pulled the boy closer to him. By tightening his grip, he effectively caused his rival to drop the wood. Lebryn groaned: he knew his time was up.

After they had grabbed each other's arms in the fashion of warriors, Feride spoke. "It is time to return to our tasks!" Gúthwyn groaned. Today stuck her with the Wargs, the disgusting, slavering hybrids of Saruman. She had been able to, thus far, bury the horror that had consumed her when first introduced to the animals, but unbeknownst to her, it still lurked in her mind, just beyond sight, waiting for the right moment to reappear.

Chalibeth smiled gently, understanding her friend's displeasure, as Lebryn came to stand beside them. Just yesterday, the clan had decided that it was best to switch Cobryn with the boy, hoping to place him with slaves who were closer to his age. Feride and Onyveth had certainly not filled that requirement.

"Come on," Lebryn urged. "If we are late than we will be punished. You know how it has been this past year." He was right. The Wizard, hoping ever to extend his empire, had recently revealed his latest creation: another hybrid race, but this time blending Orcs and goblin men. The result was truly terrifying. Known as the 'Uruk-hai,' these creatures resembled Orcs but to the extreme. They were taller, stronger, and yet slightly less cunning. With their arrival, the puzzle of the forges was answered. All along, they had been fashioning armor and weapons for what was already a small army, its purpose yet unknown.

And so the harsh treatment of the lowly workers became worse, far worse than anything that Abaudia could recall. Slaves were now flogged to within an inch of their lives if they performed even a minor offense. But perhaps they were the luckier ones.

"Hurry!" Lebryn's voice was anxious, betraying the nervousness that was already evident in his features. Gúthwyn and Chalibeth rose to their feet. The three of them were the last ones out the door, and they undertook a brisk stride to hasten themselves. Soon they caught up to the rest of the clan, and walked alongside them in silence. None of the serfs ever spoke anymore, always painfully aware of the hundred or so Uruk-hai who patrolled the grounds within the ring.

"Gúthwyn," Abaudia whispered, suddenly by the daughter of Éomund's side as the cluster divided. Motioning for the others to head into Orthanc without her, she waited until they were out of earshot before continuing. "In my old age, I neglected to tell you the information that could very well save you and the rest of your group from certain death."

A few yards in front of them, Lebryn and Chalibeth were making their way towards the Warg stables, having not yet noticed the absence of Gúthwyn. "Do not be afraid to defend yourself. The weapons of the Warg-riders are at your hands, should anything go wrong."

Gúthwyn knit her brow, remembering the elder's many quiet, secret warnings to Cobryn and Feride. "Do not be troubled when I say this: occasionally (and it has happened in the past), the Wargs will break free of their flimsy pens. The overseers' armaments will serve you well, but they are _last resort_ only. Do you understand me? _Last resort_. The Orc overseers, occasionally, are capable of stopping the Wargs before anyone is bitten.

"Although either way you are bound to be in some trouble, the punishments tend to be better than death. But, you must keep in mind that they are _only_ to be used if there are no other options."

"I will not forget your words," Gúthwyn promised, memorizing the conversation. "You have no need to fear." A relieved look crossed Abaudia's face.

"Now go, child," she commanded. "Or you will be… disciplined." Gúthwyn nodded. Turning on her heels, she ran as swiftly as she could to catch up with Chalibeth and Lebryn. Abaudia watched her carefully, and then began mounting the steps into the tower.

"Where were you?" Chalibeth queried in surprise when she saw that Gúthwyn had not been keeping the pace with them.

"I got lost in my thoughts and fell behind," Gúthwyn lied, knowing that her friend would believe the excuse.

"I see," Chalibeth responded. The stone wall loomed up in front of them, signifying that they had reached their destination. Relieved to be punctual, Lebryn used the latch to knock on the iron door. An instant later, the gate was open and they were allowed in by one of the Warg-riders.

As soon as Gúthwyn stepped forward, the onrushing gloom that covered the stables swallowed her, threatening to further the job by suffocation. Battling her instincts screaming at her to flee, she remained rooted on the spot, moving not a limb until her eyes began to adjust. She was immensely grateful for the torches lining the walls.

"Take this." The words, spoken in a hideous snarl, were uttered a second before the bucket was shoved at her chest. She managed to grab hold of it, and with a soft moan followed Chalibeth. The two of them would each take a side of the cavern.

An hour later, Lebryn had nearly finished with the back row of cages, and was approaching, with an air of caution, that mysterious corner where no light shone. He had begun to suspect that these pens were where the largest, most brutal and fearsome Wargs were kept, although he had seen neither hide nor hair of them. It was almost as if nothing was there.

As he lifted a few chunks of meat to fling at the two enclosures, an odd, prickling feeling emerged at the base of his neck, causing him to shiver. Peering into the shadows, he jumped when he discerned a pair of luminous, malevolent eyes staring at him from the darkness. Once more, that tingling sensation ran up his body. Hurriedly throwing the food towards the coop, he strode in the opposite direction, and then stopped. Something was not right.

He could feel it; he knew it as well as his own name. But despite his heart telling him differently, he saw nothing unusual. There were less Warg-riders patrolling the area than was normal, but their numbers had been reduced lately for one rationale or another, and some of them had been replaced by Uruk-hai. It was not that which concerned him. Anxiety twisted his stomach, knotting it worriedly and then releasing it only to start all over again. What was wrong?

_Creak_. The noise startled him even more so than it should have. Whirling around, he tried to locate the source. _Creak_. There it was again. _Where is it coming from?_ he wondered. It was then that he realized that it originated from a cage—but which one? He examined the row he had just done. There—on the opposite end of the shrouded pens. One of the normal ones, consisting of wood and chains. _Creak_.

He searched for Chalibeth and Gúthwyn: perhaps they had heard it. But it appeared that they had not, for with the exception of Gúthwyn, who appeared slightly nauseous, nothing was amiss about their posture, no tenseness about their features. _Creak_. His mind nagged at him. _You know what this sound is_, it informed him. _Creak_. Could he really identify the abnormal occurrence?

_Creak_. Now one of the overseers became aware of it; he strode over to others of his kind, and engaged them with an all-too-brief conversation. He could see that which Lebryn did not. The lot of them began trotting towards the door.

"Hey, get back to your positions, you scumbags!" The voice of Sharkû filled the room. Unabashed, the Orcs kept retreating, one of them muttering something about 'another duty.' Lebryn kept half an eye on them as Sharkû marched over to berate the disobedient Warg-riders, and then turned his attentions elsewhere.

_Creak…_it was drawn out now, longer, more nerve-racking. A memory was suddenly triggered. Before Gúthwyn had arrived, two slaves in the Mûlnothrim clan had been killed by the harshness of this duty, mauled in the midst of a Warg stampede. _"It… was… an accident!" _one of them had choked out as he lay dying in a pool of his own blood. Lebryn had found him—here, as a matter of fact, it was in this very spot, after the chaos had been cleared up, that the young boy had located his former friend. But what else had Guruthos spoken on that horrible day?

_Creak_. With that, he remembered. _"I did… not think much…about it, but…then they came…they broke free_._"_

"_About what? Think much about what?"_ he had pressed his friend, his curious mind ever prominent.

"_The creak…the sound of the cage… breaking_._"_ Lebryn's breath caught in his throat; involuntarily, he glanced down towards where his right arm should have been. He could recall with ease that day—it had haunted him in nightmares for weeks.

As he stood there, frozen in fear, the deserting overseers were permitted to leave by Sharkû. Noticing this, his blood boiled in fury. _Creak_. Why should _they_ be allowed to flee from this impending disaster? The answer came to him swiftly: _you are expendable—they, however, steer the Wargs_. So that was it, then. The slaves would be left here to die. After the animals had devoured their bodies, the White Wizard's servants would come back and herd the creatures back into their pens.

_This is how I am going to die_.

Gúthwyn threw another scrap to a horde of Wargs, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the scuffles that ensued. Although she still abhorred the beasts and their mocking eyes, she now felt about as comfortable as one could be in a place such as this. Chalibeth had tried to make it simpler for her: _"Just pretend that they are big, overgrown dogs that happen to have a taste for human flesh,"_ she had said. For some time after, Gúthwyn had not been able to look at the creatures without laughing.

Chalibeth was behind her, working on the second side. The two of them were both halfway down the lines: slightly ahead of schedule. The thought made Gúthwyn smile, for they might be allowed to leave earlier.

"Then again, maybe not," she muttered to herself. _I wonder how Lebryn is doing?_ She looked over towards the child, narrowing her eyes in confusion when she saw that he stood as if struck dumb. Not a muscle or limb moved an inch, as far as she could tell. Gúthwyn wanted to question him, but she knew that such a desire could not be fulfilled without attracting the attention of one of the overseers.

However, those concerns mattered not, for at that moment Sharkû spotted the immobile slave. "You there!" he yelled. "Boy!" Gúthwyn glanced back at the aged Orc and gave a start to see that there was a highly reduced number of patrollers than there was just minutes ago. She could see that Chalibeth had noticed this also, and gave her friend a look of puzzlement.

By now, Sharkû was beside himself. "Get him back to work!" he ordered, cracking his whip menacingly. One of the Uruks moved towards Lebryn, and Gúthwyn suddenly feared for the child's safety. The Uruk-hai were far more powerful than the Orcs, and therefore capable of much more destruction. But Lebryn did not seem to care that one was dangerously close to him; he stayed where he was, rooted, completely motionless.

Suddenly, a loud _CRACK_ rent the atmosphere. Gúthwyn caught a glimpse of sheer terror on Lebryn's face seconds before a cage to his right broke apart, heralding the sudden outburst of fifteen Wargs. Within seconds, the entire cavern was flooded in chaos as more of the overseers attempted to flee through the door. Those who did not start an impromptu retreat were trying to control the beasts, the lack of success eminent.

Gúthwyn stared, frozen in horror, as an Uruk lost his footing and instantly disappeared under a group of Wargs. A sudden bloodlust awoke in the beasts as their comrades howled and gnashed their teeth against their own enclosures, enraged that they had not the sudden luxury of freedom.

"Gúthwyn!" Chalibeth called, coming up beside her. "We must do something! We cannot let Lebryn die!" The boy, trusting to his agility, was trying to dodge his way out of the mayhem, but it was a game he could not hope to win for much longer. "Gúthwyn!"

Struggling to overcome the nausea welling up inside of her, Gúthwyn scanned the area where the Warg-riders kept their arms as a running Orc passed her. None of the Wargs had yet marked her and Chalibeth for a tasty meal, but she knew that they did not have much time left until one did.

"Follow me!" she instructed when she was certain that no one was watching them. Breaking into a run, she raced for her destination, fear pushing her faster and harder than she had ever gone before. All the while she prayed for Lebryn's life, hoping that it would not be too late for their assistance.

"What are you doing?" Chalibeth wanted to know when Gúthwyn began frantically searching through the artillery displayed on the walls and floor.

"There must be swords here," she grunted in response. "Ah!" A small collection of short, non-curved blades lay in a heap on the ground. "I have found some!" she exclaimed as she pulled out three of them. "Take one."

Chalibeth stared at her in awe as a weapon was thrust into her grip. "Are you saying that we are going to _kill_ all of the _Wargs_? Are you insane?"

"Not _all_ of them," Gúthwyn corrected. "But you yourself informed me that we had to rescue Lebryn, did you not? Now come!" Standing up, the daughter of Éomund began sprinting back to the masses, her two daggers grasped determinedly in her fist.

The tide was swiftly turning in favor of the Wargs, as one by one the Uruks were overwhelmed and torn apart. Sharkû, seeing that no victory was to be gained by endeavoring to subdue the monsters, began to pull back from the slaughter. Lebryn, meanwhile, was still evading the jaws of a particularly enormous brute that seemed intent on biting his head off.

As the two girls ran, one of the creatures espied them. With a snarl, he leapt towards them, his teeth bared and beady eyes seeing an easy kill. Almost mechanically, without thinking, Gúthwyn plunged her sword into his neck, yanking it out as the Warg howled in agony. With a loud _thud_ it fell to the earth.

Gúthwyn gasped, covering her mouth and feeling as if she was going to be sick again as she stared in total shock at the blade, which was now dripping with black blood. Chalibeth gaped at her in astonishment: her friend may not have noticed, but that Warg was almost taller than her and nearly three times in length.

"Are you all right?" Chalibeth asked.

"I am rather revolted," Gúthwyn spoke. Taking a deep breath, she shook her head. "Let us go and retrieve Lebryn!" Together, the girls made to plunge right into the midst of the chaos, just as the last Uruk was cut down and Sharkû exited the cavern.

"We must stick together," Chalibeth warned Gúthwyn. "More often than not, they will encircle their prey and strike from his blind side." Gúthwyn nodded, seeing the logic behind the words. She also did not want to face any Warg alone, as her fear of them was steadily growing stronger. _Do not think about it_, she cautioned herself.

"Now!" Gúthwyn yelled. Together, the slaves dove into the center of the chase, distracting the animals from their hunt for the still-evasive Lebryn. One of them attempted to lunge forward and bite Chalibeth, but for all his speed she was smaller, and therefore managed to duck under his head and thrust her blade into his chest. His body fluids squirted out onto her hands, and she shuddered in disgust before darting away from the collapsing corpse.

Gúthwyn was finishing off her second Warg with a deadly slash to the throat when Lebryn found the workers. His mouth dropped open when he saw that they had killed three of the beasts. "How foolish are you?" he hollered. "Do you know how much trouble we will be in?"

"Would you rather die?" Gúthwyn retorted, tossing him a sword.

"Look out!" Chalibeth screamed suddenly at the boy. Instinctively, Lebryn crouched low and rolled to the side, barely managing to avoid the Warg would have barreled into him, her weight four times that of his rendering him stunned and helpless.

By now the Wargs were surrounding them, establishing the lethal circle that would end in certain death for the laborers. Chalibeth, Gúthwyn, and Lebryn were forced to draw closer together, limiting their mobility to a small area. The animals, however, made sure that they themselves had plenty of room for their own purposes. These were made all too clear when one of the Wargs burst into the ring, aiming for Chalibeth. With one swift motion, Lebryn jumped forward unexpectedly and gouged the monster's eye out. As the intended victim gave her savior a grateful nod, the Wargs made ferocious noises of dissent, causing the din to reach ear-splitting levels.

Incensed, two of the beasts lunged at Lebryn. With what can only be described as an inhumane feat of strength, skill, and speed, he dodged out of the way, clutched the fur of the first, and used the handhold to swing himself up onto the Warg's back. Instantly the brute started running around in short bursts, bucking and rearing in an effort to throw the weapon-wielding slave. In doing so he managed to effectively scatter the tight crowd, which no doubt had been Lebryn's intention to begin with.

"We should split up now," Gúthwyn informed Chalibeth as Lebryn held on for his life, shaking from the close encounter. "Now that I have experienced this phenomenon, I would rather not face them all at once."

Chalibeth glanced at Lebryn, breathing deeply now that the Wargs were not trying to assault them at the time. "Do you think we should help him?"

"He has no control over that thing. We would be mauled in the process," Gúthwyn answered, shivering at the idea. She did not know how Lebryn could stand to be so close to those creatures.

"What shall we do, then?" Chalibeth inquired.

"We should keep ourselves somewhere near our friend… this way, in case he gets thrown off, we will be able to kill any animal that tries to eat him."

"So it is back into the fray?" Chalibeth sighed, although she agreed with the plan.

"Yes, regrettably." Once more, the two girls led an attack on the Wargs, an occurrence that would have greatly amused any bystander, had he dared approach. Inspired by Lebryn, Chalibeth started to leap onto one of the brutes, but halfway through she plunged her sword deep into the flesh between his shoulder blades. He fell to the floor, his muscles twitching and jerking. Thinking it would be a better idea to leave him, the serf began to edge away. When she glanced back, a small group of beasts were upon their comrade, tearing him to pieces with their jaws.

Still riding the Warg, Lebryn swiftly realized that he could not in any way hope to direct the beast. With a flick of his wrist, he drove his dagger into the monster's head and into his skull. Emitting a hideous shriek that was cut short by death, she crumpled to the ground, almost throwing Lebryn off in the process. In spite of the current situation, Lebryn grinned. He could not wait until he told Cobryn about this.

Not too far from him, Gúthwyn silently counted the Wargs they had annihilated. _One… two… three… six_, she finished. _How long will it be until one of us becomes a casualty?_ A sudden roar in front of her caused the daughter of Éomund to bound backwards. It was lucky for her that she had, for otherwise one of the beasts would have rammed into her chest, crushing the air out of her and leaving her unable to move.

Her breath coming in sharp gasps of fright, Gúthwyn stared at her opponent. She did not notice the cluster of Wargs that had positioned themselves around the two, watching for the moment where the human would fall and supply fresh provender.

Once more, the creature lunged at her, and Gúthwyn was forced to jump out of the way. It was from there that everything seemed to happen slowly, as if all the events were taking place in a trench of pitch. In the action of escape, she tripped over her own feet, and she fell downwards, her blade flying out of her hands as she landed hard on her back.

_It is all over_. She had time to think that last, encouraging thought before they surrounded her.


	14. Burning Flesh

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirteen:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created/housed. If anyone has any suggestions concerning this assumption, I'd be grateful to hear them. Finally, this was originally supposed to be the second half of Chapter Twelve… aren't you glad I cut it up?

**Chapter Thirteen**

Within seconds, all she could see were teeth and fur. Gúthwyn screamed in terror as one of them dug his claws into her leg, letting white-hot streaks of pain shoot up her body. Another Warg tried to bite her face, but with a frightened yell she turned away. With a horrible noise she felt her skin tearing and breaking as her whole left cheek was ripped off. "Somebody help me!" she cried, but the words came out as no more than a whisper.

The beast that had ravaged her features used one of his paws to effortlessly flip her over. A different animal nipped at her legs, reducing the girl to hysterical tears. _Please, just dispose of me now!_ she begged silently as she closed her eyes, unable to do anything to defend herself as her body was destroyed, soon to be reduced to a bleeding carcass.

Suddenly, when she was prepared to join her brother and sister, the air about her became less stifled, and more wholesome. Curious despite her horror, she chanced a look around her and saw that someone was driving off the Wargs. One by one they disappeared from sight, presumably slaughtered at the height of their excitement. A moment passed, and then, her sobs much reduced, she could no longer hear them bellowing.

"Gúthwyn!" Her rescuer, now identified as Lebryn, knelt by her side. "Your face—your legs—" Shaking his head in amazement, he tried to lift the trembling girl up. "I have killed two animals, and the others fled. Can you walk?"

"Lebryn," Gúthwyn interrupted, desperate to know something. "My cheek… how bad is it? What does it look like?" Lebryn stared at her, and then shrugged.

"I cannot tell," he responded. "There is too much blood."

With a quaking hand, Gúthwyn gently touched her face, brushing them over ripples of mutilated, soft, recently exposed flesh. When she brought it back, the area was drenched in the scarlet fluid. She gasped, suddenly feeling as if she was going to faint.

"Gúthwyn! Please, you need to get up! Abaudia can dress the wound later, but now we have to make sure there _is_ a later!" Lebryn pleaded with her. Taking a deep breath, trying to steady herself, Gúthwyn nodded.

Just then, a Warg, sensing a quick meal, lunged at Lebryn, knocking the boy clean off his feet and sending him flying to the ground. Gúthwyn scrambled to a standing position and saw that Lebryn was utterly paralyzed, defenseless as she had been in that awful moment and thought herself dead. But how could she repay the debt he had placed on her shoulders? She had no weapon.

_Find it, you fool!_ her mind berated her. Swiftly she scanned the immediate area, spotting with relief the blade. She dove for it, ignoring the wailing protests of her limbs. Knowing that she had little or no time, she picked up the dagger, and stood up to look at the beast. Taking aim, she flung the sword at the creature's shoulders, hoping that, at the least, it would distract him.

To her surprise, although it landed slightly higher than her intent, the blade still buried itself in a vital area. Soundlessly, the Warg's knees buckled and sent him crashing down on top of Lebryn. Gúthwyn winced as she heard something crack, but was relieved that the twelve-year-old did not seem to be critically harmed. Quickly she retrieved the blade, smiling reassuringly at Lebryn as she did so. Unfortunately, she knew that she could not lift the corpse on her own- she had learned that Wargs often weighed four times that of a grown man. She needed Chalibeth to assist her.

_Where is she?_ Gúthwyn now asked herself as she searched for her friend. Then she smiled, observing with pride as Chalibeth, with deadly accuracy, stabbed her dagger through the eye of a Warg, yanking it out as the brute howled in agony. Gracefully she turned away, looking for another adversary. It was at that second that the start of an unbearable torment began.

Gúthwyn unexpectedly recalled the vision she had experienced three years ago. She realized now that the cavern she had been in was this one. The Wargs that had been attacking lay dead around her. But what of the person who had been mauled?

"CHALIBETH!" Gúthwyn screamed, understanding with a horrible surge of knowledge the identity of their prey. "BEHIND YOU!" The animal that Chalibeth had presumed dead was gathering his final strength, ready to make that leap that would take both of their lives. Gúthwyn could only watch, horror-struck, as Chalibeth swiveled around only to be struck full in the chest; with a terrified look in her eyes she tumbled on the ground. She lay there motionless, her golden hair spread out behind her, azure eyes closed as if the action would bring her peace in the midst of this battle. She knew her life was ending.

That was the last glimpse Gúthwyn had of her, and though it lasted but an instant, it was how she would always remember the girl who had been her closest friend for only three years. With gleeful shrieks and snarls, the Wargs jumped upon Chalibeth. Unlike those who had attacked Gúthwyn, these wasted no time nibbling at the skin. Unable to turn her head away from the gory sight, the daughter of Éomund stared as Chalibeth was mercilessly ripped apart. In less than a minute, bones were being spit out of the creatures' mouths, blood spewing in all directions as they carried out their execution.

In the middle of this, Sharkû returned to the caverns. But he was not alone. Saruman the White, resplendent in all his power, accompanied the veteran Warg-rider, his gaze passing over all that had happened. He saw a slave trapped under one of the beasts; what had been another serving as an ample meal for his creations. And then his eyes fell upon Gúthwyn, that insolent Rohirric worker, situated as if transfixed yards away from her fellow laborers, a sword clutched in her hand that dripped black blood.

Gúthwyn did not mark the entry of the most dangerous wizard in Middle-earth, nor did she see his features contort in an indescribable fury. She too was consumed in rage and grief, so that for a moment she did nothing, torn between the two emotions. Half of her did not think that she was living at the time, as if it was a nightmare and she would wake up soon, Chalibeth teasing her for sleeping so late, and everything would be back to normal.

However, it was not to be, as Gúthwyn so clearly saw when the Wargs pulled back from their kill. All that remained of Chalibeth was a pool of her fluids, scattered remnants of bones, and a few locks of her fair hair. The rest of her body was dangling from the mouths of various animals, a sight so gruesome that Gúthwyn's lunch twisted in her stomach, protesting the image. But she paid no attention to that ill feeling. She had to avenge her friend.

With a savage cry of ferocity that echoed throughout the cavern, Gúthwyn held her sword high and charged the beasts, her mind fixed on one thought and one thought alone: revenge. Everything but the Wargs seemed to blur, becoming non-existent in this new dimension of massacre. If any of these creatures lived to be fed another day, it would be utter failure on her part.

A Warg, clearly the highest in whatever hierarchy the brutes possessed, sauntered forward before lunging at Gúthwyn, hoping to take her down swiftly and without hindrance. The daughter of Éomund merely stepped out of the way and then thrust her blade into the animal's back. Not even pausing to savor her victory, she turned her attentions to the rest of the beasts. _Four more left_, she thought.

Saruman observed all this with wrathful eyes. Sharkû made to join the fray, but the Wizard held him back. "Not yet," Saruman spoke. "Eventually she will fall, and we can salvage something out of this wreck." The Warg-rider obviously disagreed, but knew better than to question his superior. His own body tensing in anger, Sharkû could not prevent the utter annihilation of his cavalry.

Indeed, utter annihilation it was, as Gúthwyn slit open the throats of two more Wargs and halfway decapitated a third. She left them to die in agony, their lives seeping out of their writhing carcasses. Stopping only to pick up Chalibeth's discarded dagger, she rushed the fourth beast, stabbing it in the neck and using her own blade to gut the victim. Luckier than her comrades, the Warg was dead almost immediately.

Abruptly, everything went quiet. Gúthwyn dropped her swords, sinking to her knees in despair. For, despite the slaying of the brutes, Chalibeth was not alive, and had since departed the circles of this world. Tears began sliding down her cheeks, a prelude to the racking sobs that came after. Burying her face in her hands, she crumpled to the ground and wept.

Gúthwyn had been in that position for a minute when, suddenly, a pair of strong hands grasped her arms, pressed them to her back, and unceremoniously yanked her upwards. From muttered curses, she guessed that the attacker was Sharkû. Gasping, she began kicking wildly behind her, hoping to loose the Warg-rider's grip. But there was no such luck, and instead, she was pushed down again and her head was slammed repeatedly into the ground.

"Enough," a cold voice spoke, and instantly Gúthwyn was lifted to her feet, a sense of dread coming over her, accompanied by an utter loss of direction that was a result of the abuse she had just endured. She swiftly forgot about all her previous troubles, though, when she was whirled around to face the White Wizard.

What astounded her, and made her more than a little wary, was his face. Instead of being livid like she had expected it to be, his expression was that of an adult who was about to lightly discipline their child over a trivial matter. His eyes were wise and benevolent, with a hint of regret and sadness. If anything, this made Gúthwyn uneasier, and she endeavored to look anywhere but at Saruman.

"Why, my slave, would you feel so inclined to destroy my creations?" he asked, taking on the tone of someone who has been wronged without justice. Instantly, Gúthwyn became calm, and she almost laughed at herself for her earlier fears. The Wizard's words were kind, enchanting to listen to, and held no promise of punishment. She felt an overwhelming urge to agree with all that Saruman said, obey all of his orders, as faithfully as the horse follows its rider's commands.

"They assaulted us," she replied, and marveled to hear her own voice sound hoarse and croaking.

"And so you decided to murder them senselessly?" the voice pressed, but still no fury stained the question. But Gúthwyn was puzzled. Now that she thought about it, why had she been so eager to dispose of the Wargs? What had they ever done to her?

"I do not—" she began, but then an image came to her mind. Once more, she relived Chalibeth's death, the horror in her friend's eyes as she faced her end. _Shall I mock her memory?_ she questioned her conscience silently.

With some effort, she steeled herself to gaze at the White Wizard. "They are corpses now," Gúthwyn began thickly, "because otherwise my companions would have perished. One of them, as it were, is no longer alive." She then thought of Lebryn, and of how much danger the two of them were in. However, perhaps she could at least get the boy out of punishment.

Coming to a conclusion and sealing her fate, Gúthwyn allowed a defiant tone to enter her voice. "I have upheld my honor," she continued haughtily. "I slaughtered all fifteen of them!"

Behind her, Sharkû hissed in rage, and his hold on her arms significantly tightened. Saruman's gaze narrowed, and the next sentence that came out of his mouth was not even remotely pleasant. "You fool!" he all but screamed, a wild, red light entering his eyes. "Did you really think you would escape any castigation? That Gúthwyn, a mere slave, would be able to strike down her master's servants at will and go without reprimands?"

Gúthwyn stared, at a complete loss as to how the White Wizard knew her name. "Oh, yes," Saruman continued, his tone calmer, as though perceiving her thoughts, "I know who you are. Gríma told me about you; indeed, I know your lineage as well, having some knowledge of the crude House of Eorl. Tell me, Gúthwyn, how does it feel to be reduced from the King's niece to a slave without pride?"

To her chagrin, the daughter of Éomund felt tears beginning to fill her eyes. _Not here, not now!_ her mind yelled at her. Desperate, she just managed to blink them back. "You know me not, if you think I have been beaten down," she retorted, aware of how much hot water she was currently submerged in.

"Perhaps you have," Saruman replied, a smile coming across his features. "For were you not unable to save your friend? Chalibeth, yes, I believe that _was_ her name." Gúthwyn started, and against all logic would have thrown herself at the wizard if Sharkû had not held her back.

"How dare you!" she shrieked, momentarily forgetting her current situation and spitting on the ground at Saruman's feet. "How dare you even _mention_ her name?"

If she had thought that the White Wizard was angry before, this was nothing compared to now. His face twisting in rage, his eyes shooting venom, Saruman did not hesitate with his next sentence. "Sharkû, take this insolent brat into the cage."

"Yes, my Lord," the Warg-rider replied, his mouth stretching into a grin as he clutched Gúthwyn's arms tighter and began steering her away from his master. Gúthwyn cast one mystified glance back at the wizard, and saw him chuckling with mirth. Her stomach clenched, twisting and turning within the confines of her body. _This cannot be good_, she thought.

The horrible echo of Saruman's laugh pounded at Gúthwyn's ears, barely louder than the frantic beating of her heart. For it had become all too clear that Sharkû was taking her to the mysterious cage bathed in shadows, and she understood now why no Wargs had been seen within its confines: there were none, as it was reserved for disobedient slaves. A sick feeling in her stomach made its presence known as the Warg-rider drew her closer to this punishment.

Gúthwyn could not have known that her guess about the enclosure's purpose was only half right, and that it was not, as she had supposed, empty. But the idea did not cross her mind as she was dragged along, still attempting to squirm her way out of Sharkû's grasp. As they came closer to the cage, she squinted into its depths, trying to make out even the vaguest shape, but it was futile. No light pierced the darkness; nothing could be seen.

Even so, a sudden dread seized her as Sharkû came to the door, an unexpected and consuming terror: she did not want to go into that pen. With a shriek, she began kicking at the Warg-rider's legs in a furious panic, startling him to the point where he almost let go of her. But then he tightened his hold on her, and in one surprisingly swift motion slammed her body into the wood of the cage.

Gúthwyn's head contacted painfully with the hard surface, and she moaned in pain as she was pulled back and then thrust forward again. This brutal chastisement was continued until she was barely able to move, so dizzy had she been rendered. Sharkû snarled triumphantly, and dimly Gúthwyn registered the sound of a knife being unsheathed. She shuddered as she felt the cool tip of the metal pressed against her cheek, and then twitched in agony as he dug it slightly into her wound.

"Next time, you're dead!" Sharkû threatened, pushing the knife in a little further before at last lowering it. Unable to scream, Gúthwyn felt as if she would explode from the pain. She still had not yet recovered from being smashed into the enclosure.

Taking advantage of his captive's weak state, Sharkû let go of her with one arm and set about undoing the lock to the cage. He had finished this task almost before she was aware of a loosened grip. _I should have taken the opportunity to escape_, Gúthwyn wearily lamented, but she knew that she would not have gotten far.

An unrelenting terror still clutched at her heart, escalating to extreme heights when the door into the cage swung open. She was greeted with a roaring blackness, and an even louder silence. The sounds of the growling Wargs seemed to be muffled as soon as Sharkû pushed her inside, and they grew fainter as he forced her further in.

Completely incapable of seeing anything, she was vividly reminded of her first time entering the Warg stables; the frightening memory turned wretched as she remembered how Chalibeth had tried to help her overcome her fear of the beasts. Tears welled up in her eyes before she could stop them, and her body started to shake with the sobs and cries that were now being emitted through her mouth.

"Shut your mouth, human!" Sharkû's command was followed by a slap to her face, which she did not espy even when it was but inches away. Ashamed of herself for showing such weakness, Gúthwyn quieted, but it took a longer time for her tears to dry.

They were now so far into the cage that, when she turned her head, she could not even see the door. The shadows were surrounding her, suffocating her, and the silence was so deep that the hissing of Sharkû's breath seemed as loud as a galloping cavalry thundering across the plains.

She had just begun to hope that she would not be marched through this horrible place for much longer, when suddenly Sharkû halted. Uneasily, she felt an unidentifiable liquid seeping through her thin and tattered boots—she dearly hoped that it was nothing more than drinking water. But there was no light to shine upon what lay on the ground, and she guessed with a heavy heart that there would be none.

Her senses already adjusting, she felt Sharkû's presence as he reached past her. A creaking sound like an old door met her ears, and she wondered if there was another cage in front of her. She had no time to think of anything more before she was roughly turned around and picked up. Instantly, she began flailing her arms in the direction of the Warg-rider, but he was too swift for her, and he had the element of surprise on his side.

Gúthwyn then experienced the queerest sensation: she felt as though she were being stuffed into a box. Sharkû had arranged her limbs so that they were as close together as possible, and as he moved her forward she felt something hard brush past her on either side. Then he dropped her, and she fell only a couple of inches before landing on a wooden surface. She knitted her brows in shock, for most of the floors in Isengard were packed dirt, and those in Orthanc were of some jet material.

Suddenly, the ground beneath her swayed, and she flung her arms outwards. It was then that she realized where she was.

For Gúthwyn's arms had hit a series of wooden bars, and when she moved them upwards, they did not extend fully before touching the roof of her prison. A _creak_ was heard before her, and when she reached towards it, she felt a door, and then the lock that circled around it. The weight of this knowledge struck at her with the force of an arrow: she was in her own little cage. She could move less than a foot in any directions.

She had never been frightened of enclosed spaces, but this was too much for her. As the receding footsteps of Sharkû echoed in the darkness, she screamed in horror, her voice hysterical and cracking. Frantically she beat at the walls of her prison, but it was useless. "NO!" she shrieked at the top of her lungs—then, she froze.

For in answer to her yells, a series of haunting howls rose up in the air above her, frighteningly close on all sides. They were the calls of Wargs, though ten times as menacing and ravenous. Never, in her worst nightmare, could Gúthwyn have dreamt of a more terrifying punishment. The very core of her soul was cowering in fear, and she felt as though she would retch. To block out the noises of the Wargs, she clamped her hands over her ears, but she could still feel them around her; how had she not noticed them before?

It was some time before she gathered the courage to lower her hands, but when she did, the Wargs were silent. In their place was a steady falling of footsteps, growing ever louder. Hope beyond hope was ignited within her: perhaps Sharkû was going to take her out, and whip her instead. Her fear of the Wargs was such that torture was preferable over being forced to endure their presence.

Hardly daring to wish it were so, Gúthwyn peered out into the darkness, and saw a small patch of flickering firelight suspended in mid-air. The black atmosphere of the caverns seemed to swallow its rays whole, and only the gleaming, malignant eyes of Sharkû were visible from it.

Her heart beating erratically, she watched apprehensively as the orange glow neared her. The eyes bored into hers, and she found herself backing as far away from them as was possible. Then suddenly they disappeared, and the fire plunged downwards. It fell below her line of vision, and she realized that her prison was above ground. She barely had time to be surprised before there was a _thump_, and the resulting blaze of light nearly blinded her.

However, as her eyes steadily became used to the glare, she wished that she truly had been blinded, rather than have seen her surroundings. For it became permanently etched into her memory, something that she would never forget in the years to come. Long ago, it was said, the Valar had forsaken Middle-earth, and now Gúthwyn wholly believed that the lands and their people had been abandoned to their fates.

Everywhere there were monstrous Wargs, nearly twice the size of those that lived in the light. These festered in the darkness, drinking up the shadows until their stomachs were full of it; then they would turn to the unfortunate slaves who, like Gúthwyn, had done wrong. The ground was littered with the bones of those lucky enough to have been killed almost instantly—however, here and there were corpses so mutilated, so unrecognizable, that she felt her stomach leaping into her throat. Some of the Wargs still had flesh dangling from their mouths, which they chewed languorously as they watched her convulse and choke on her terror.

Sharkû's cold, hard laugh drew her eyes near him, and she saw with revulsion the body that had been used as fuel for the sinisterly shimmering flames. Already its skin was beginning to blacken and shrivel, and the nauseating smell of burning flesh met her nostrils. A lifeless arm reached from the blazing torso, its withered hand pathetically grasping at another. Gúthwyn followed the connection, and what she saw would torment her sleep ever after.

The young girl was one of the few identifiable carcasses remaining; she was not much older than Onyveth was. One of her legs had been bitten off to the knee, and blood was still seeping out of the mangled flesh. The other leg was so grotesquely twisted and bent that Gúthwyn felt sure that more than one bone had been brutally snapped. Once more, her meager lunch rose upwards in protest, and she wrenched her eyes away to focus on the girl's upper body instead.

This was far worse than the legs—the stomach had been ripped open and delved into so thoroughly that there were few entrails left, and the rest of the blood-coated organs had popped out and were spilling over her skin. Sickened, Gúthwyn realized that she could see the ribs of this poor child: the white bone glistened in the firelight.

The rest of the corpse had fared no better. Half of her fingers were missing, no more now than fleshy stumps that had been stained red and black. The hand that was grasping the flaming corpse had a hole in it. The arms were worse: long strips of skin had been torn off of her limbs, exposing what lay beneath; part of her right shoulder had disappeared.

Gúthwyn felt a horrible surge of loathing and disgust towards Saruman. She could not believe that once she had thought him a benefactor of Rohan. How many of these people were Rohirric, having been snatched from their loving families to die alone at the jaws of the Wargs? How many of them were children? Was this to become her destiny? _No_, she vowed, _I will not let that happen_.

As the fire danced merrily, heedless of the revolting carnage that it was shedding light upon, Gúthwyn's eyes moved to the girl's face, and in two seconds the image had been permanently seared into her mind. The mouth was stretched wide, stopped mid-shriek in a scream of pain that no child should have been forced to endure. The nose was gone, but the blood streaming from the wound would have filled it three times over.

Yet, out of everything Gúthwyn had seen, the eyes were by far the most hideous to look upon. At first she thought that they had been eaten, for they were so black that they seemed like holes. But they were there: wide open in terror, moving endlessly around in their sockets—

_Wait_, Gúthwyn thought with a jolt. _Moving?_

Craning her neck to be able to see as well as possible, she soon realized that this was what Sharkû had intended her to observe. For the frenzied movement was not caused by the girl. A countless number of maggots were crawling over her eyes, greedily eating away at them, their black bodies the reason for the darkness of her pupils.

Suddenly, a multitude of high-pitched screams deluged in terror rose in swelling crescendos about her. As Gúthwyn howled in revulsion, the Wargs answered her, until the air was filled with a clamorous noise. "NO!" Gúthwyn found herself shrieking repeatedly, horror etched into every note. Uselessly, she began kicking and punching at the walls of her cage, but they held fast. A vibrant dread ran through her; she felt as if she were suffocating, and no matter how hard she tried, she was unable to look away from that girl, covered in maggots.

Sharkû was nearly beside himself with cruel amusement, but all that his twisted face showed was a leering grin. "We'll see if you fare better than they do," he said, baring yellow-stained teeth at her.

Gúthwyn quieted down, staring at him in shock. How long was she going to be forced to live like this? She had barely been in the cage for five minutes, and she already felt as though she would die.

"I'll be back in three days," the Warg-rider promised, licking his lips. "And then the Wargs will feast!"

As the Wargs bellowed with delight, Gúthwyn clutched her stomach in agony. The walls of her prison seemed to shrink, until there was but one inch of breathing room. She was swaying, helplessly, at the hands of a merciless punishment. "No…" she managed to gasp at Sharkû, "No, no…"

Sharkû just laughed, throwing his head back and releasing a series of harsh barks. "I daresay the boys will want revenge for your ill-doings!" he cackled. With a cry of mirth, he bent down and picked something up from the floor: a bucket. In one, swift motion, he doused the flames with water, extinguishing the fire and plunging the area into darkness.

Gúthwyn felt as if she was trapped in a never-ending nightmare, but this was ten times—no, a thousand times—worse. As Sharkû left the enclosure, she curled her knees in to her chest and tucked her head between them, struggling to fight off the uproarious nausea that seemed intent upon making her vomit. Wild terror seized her, changing the course of her heart so that it beat erratically. Her breathing was coming in short, uneven gasps, and her eyes were frantically darting in all directions.

Suddenly, a rumbling sound echoed above her, and with a shudder her cage began to gradually move upwards. Gúthwyn froze, looking all around her, though she knew it was useless. The wood creaked as she rose higher and higher, sending nervous tremors racing through her. She realized that there must have been a pulley system attached, much like the one good Tun had used when his mother sent him to draw water from the well.

_What if the whole thing falls to the ground?_ The abrupt thought sent her into a panic. Were any part of her to touch the floor, the Wargs would surely tear it apart. With a jolt, the cage stopped rising, and she glanced down. She could not even begin to guess how high up she was—until she saw the gleaming pinpricks of two watching eyes below her. Gúthwyn managed to stifle her cry, but she leaned backwards as far as she was able. She guessed that she was about five feet above the Warg, but she did not know whether the beast was standing or kneeling. This knowledge brought her little comfort.

_Please, someone, take me away from this horrible place and I will do anything you wish me to!_ she pleaded silently, tears beginning to slide down her face. Angrily, she raised her head and wiped them away. Her family was already disgraced on her account—she needed to learn how to control her emotions. _I will survive_, she vowed, _and I will leave this cage alive_.

The promise brought some strength to her, though it was not enough to stay her trembling body. Rather than feeling as if she would retch, she now thought she might faint from the shock of it all. But her mind wildly fought against it: _If you should lose consciousness, and let a limb slip between the bars, it will not be there when you wake up._ Then Gúthwyn realized that that meant she would have to battle against the lure of sleep—and succeed—for three days.

It was then that she noticed the steady stream of blood flowing down her face. She remembered, with a shudder, the hideous sound of her flesh being ripped from her. Almost instinctively, she raised her hand to her cheek, and then wished she had not. The wound was throbbing from the pain already, and the touch of her fingers sent flares of agony shooting through her. It was still bleeding.

_That cannot be good_, Gúthwyn thought worriedly. What if she survived this horror, only to succumb to an irreversible loss of blood? There seemed to be nothing that she could do to stop it. She had no bandages to at least wrap around the gash, nor was there any water to clean it. In addition, she did not know how bad the situation was, or how much of her fluids had already departed her body.

_Think rationally_, she tried to counsel herself, though it was next to impossible with the presence of near twenty Wargs surrounding her. _Do not pay attention to them._ Attempting to force her mind to concentrate, Gúthwyn soon made up her mind. Reaching for the bottom of her shirt, she ripped off a large piece that circled all the way around her body, hoping that it was somewhat even. She then tore the fabric in two and clumsily tied both strips around her face, above where she thought the deepest part of the wound to be.

When that was done, the panic that had retreated to the back of her mind reappeared in full force, and she began quaking. When she cautiously glanced about her, she saw no more eyes, but the blackness was a poor exchange. Gúthwyn had never feared the dark before, but now she began to wonder what the night concealed from her. Terrible thoughts rose and swirled throughout her mind, until the mixture was more than she could bear. Once more she tucked her head between her knees, and this time firmly shut her eyes. There was nothing to do but wait.


	15. The Second Fear

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fourteen:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created/housed. If anyone has any suggestions concerning this assumption, I'd be grateful to hear them. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters—sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing.

**Chapter Fourteen**

Several hours later, Gúthwyn's body was covered in sweat, and her glazed eyes were darting wildly around within their sockets. Ever and anon, two small shining lights would appear as tiny tongues of flame in the darkness, sending her into convulsive, irrepressible shivers. The pleasure of the Wargs was palpable as they waited patiently for their victim to give into the deadly, lulling whispers of exhaustion.

_Control your fear_, Gúthwyn told herself frantically in between short breaths. But it was futile. Her fear was controlling her as a puppet on strings, determining her actions with the slightest tug in any direction. It used her cage as an accomplice, making the walls seem as though they were pressing on her, bringing with them a blind panic that threatened to suffocate her.

Already her wound was beginning to take its effect, as the bleeding had not let up and she had lost more blood than was good for her. Gúthwyn had clamped both of her hands firmly over it, trying to ignore the feeling of rippling flesh below, and biting her lip against the pain until it was dotted scarlet; still the gash showed no signs of clotting up. A faint, yet familiar dizzying feeling began creeping over her as night lay over Isengard—surely, the sun had sank long ago.

Once more, Gúthwyn felt an urge to surrender to her need for sleep, but she dug her fists into her eyes in defiance. _No!_ she screamed at herself. _I cannot let down my guard!_ She knew that, should she fail, the consequence would be a missing limb—at best. And so she struggled to remain awake, gloomily reflecting that, when tomorrow's dawn rose, there would be another day to fight through, and another one after that. Her chances of survival seemed slim to none.

Her stomach growled hungrily as she thought of the other Mûlnothrim sleeping upon their cots, after a dinner that was beginning to seem more and more like a feast than a slave's meal. They had had water as well, she mused, licking her thirsty lips. Another worry grew on her: what if she became dehydrated? What would happen then? How long could she survive? She remembered Théodred telling her that a man was able to survive for weeks without food, but only a very short amount of time without water.

The gnawing sensation in her stomach grew more pronounced, and she marveled at her foolishness. The situation, she understood, would only become worse if she concentrated on that which she could not have. To keep her mind off of her surroundings, she allowed it to wander back to the fields of Rohan. She saw the landscape flashing by her as she rode upon Heorot—what had become of her friend? Were the stableboys taking proper care of him? She wondered who was riding him now.

Then she thought of Éowyn and Éomer. Bitterly, she reflected that even if, by some unlooked-for stroke of miraculous luck she came home to Edoras, nothing would be the same without them. She loved Théoden and Théodred dearly, but they were not her siblings. She was twenty-one years younger than Théodred, as well; he was bound to be wrapped up with things more important than entertaining his cousin.

Suddenly, she realized what she was doing. _You fool, you are never going back to Meduseld! You will die here, if not in this cage!_ But no matter how many times she berated herself, she could not help but imagine what life would be like back home. There would be a real bed, for one thing, with as many covers and pillows as she wished. Food and water would always be plentiful…

Gúthwyn groaned as her belly rumbled and she felt the dryness in her throat. Everything she seemed to think of reminded her of her present predicament. Even the pleasant refuge of Rohan within her mind provided no escape. The Warg bite began pounding once again, and more fluids flowed from her lip as she bit it in pain. But when she moved her fingers around her face, she was slightly comforted by the fact that the bleeding was apparently slowing.

_Slowing, but not fast enough_, she thought as she withstood another wave of fatigue. _If I do not collapse from exhaustion or from lack of drink, then it will be from losing so much blood._

With a sigh of frustration, she glanced around for the first time in almost an hour, and froze in horror. There was a Warg below her, staring hungrily upwards; in the roaring silence she heard its tongue slopping around in its mouth. She struggled to regain her senses, telling herself that sooner or later the lights would disappear, and she would have some time to recover before a different set flared up.

But after several minutes, the eyes were still there, fixed upon her with a terrifying intensity. Gúthwyn tried to bury her head in her hands, but she could not rid the impression of being watched. She even covered her ears, hoping that if she could not see or hear her surroundings she would have some peace, but it was to no avail. Close to an hour had passed by, and yet those eyes remained. She began to tremble.

Soon the shudders came more frequently, and more violently, as Gúthwyn grew daunted by the yellow gleams. Once more she felt as if a pillow had been pressed over her mouth; her lungs seemed too small to provide air for her body. Still the eyes stared relentlessly at her, not even blinking as they watched. A wild horror grew over her, an irresistible urge to escape. And as reason slowly left her, she succumbed to it.

With a sudden burst of energy she lashed out at the wooden bars of her cage, pummeling them as hard as she might. She cared not that the Warg was waiting for her to leave the protection of her prison: with a shriek, she screamed, "Go away!"

Its eyes flashed menacingly, and the creature moved closer than before. Gúthwyn's movements became even more frenzied, and she beat fruitlessly at the ceiling and floor of the enclosure. "Someone help!" she cried, her voice echoing in the cavernous stable. "Get me out of here!" But no one came.

After a time she stopped, her rage quieted by the Warg's cool gaze. The bite on her cheek was pounding fiercer than ever, but when she moved her fingers over it, the blood flow was drastically slower than it had been. It may have even stopped bleeding, for the wound was so covered in the scarlet liquid that she could have just felt the remainder of it. The thought only vaguely comforted her, for the shoots of pain racing through her body were agonizing.

_May it keep me awake_, she prayed, turning terrified eyes on the Warg. It was still looking at her, as though there were nothing else it desired to do. Her shallow breathing was magnified in the blackness until she could hear nothing else, not even the Warg slopping its tongue. She drifted into disturbing thoughts, accompanied by voices from her dreams long ago.

_You are worthless_, they told her mockingly; y_ou are nothing. First you murdered us, and now it is your turn to die._

Gúthwyn gasped, her eyes bolting open: she had closed them in fear. Those were the voices of Éowyn and Éomer; she recognized them as easily as she would recognize the whinny of a horse.

_You have failed us…_ they continued, spitting every word out in disgust. _You will go to your death…to your doom… die…_

"No," Gúthwyn begged, putting her hands over her ears. "Please, stop!"

_Doom… die…_

"Stop it!" Gúthwyn screamed at them. "Leave me alone!"

_Die…_

And then they were gone. Gúthwyn was breathing heavily, her hand on her chest in an effort to steady herself. Why was she being tormented by voices of past nightmares? It was as though she were being slowly driven to madness by her fears. They were strangling her, laughing as they did so, delighted to have another victim fall prey to their clutches. It did not seem like she would manage to survive this punishment.

_No_, she vowed, _I will survive. I will not listen to the voices. They have no hold over me. They will not sway me._

But that promise was difficult to keep, and grew harder as the hours crawled by. She was certain that the sun had risen over the Nan Curunír, bringing with it another endless day of toil for the slaves. She had thought that the whispers and accusations would leave her then, but instead they grew stronger.

_Look at yourself_, they taunted, _you are so weak, and not yet a day has passed. No wonder the Wargs watch you; you will fall any minute now. And once the beasts are done with you, we will come._

"No," Gúthwyn mumbled, wearily rubbing her eyes in order to keep them open. "I will not die."

_Yes, you will_.

"STOP IT!" Gúthwyn roared, punching a wooden bar in her fury. That silenced them, but in turn seemed to magnify various feelings that had lain unnoticed for hours: fear, pain, hunger, and thirst. Her entire body screamed for water; her lips were dry and slowly shriveling from a deadly lack of moisture. Also in agony was her stomach, screaming pitifully for sustenance that she could not give. If anything, it would be she providing a meal for a Warg.

_No_, she sternly told herself. _Think not those thoughts_.

But what else could she do? She felt completely trapped, and she longed to stretch out her legs before her. One foot had fallen asleep and, try as she might, she could not wake it up. It was becoming more and more difficult to suppress memories of her large bed in Meduseld, with its three pillows and soft, smooth blankets…

Gúthwyn groaned. It seemed that, no matter where she cast her mind, it always drew in a recollection that served only to magnify her troubles. Barely stifling a yawn, she pressed her fingers into her eyes and rotated them around, hoping to stave off sleep for as long as was possible. She had never known anyone to stay awake for three days in a row; the evidence lay all around her, though she could not see the bodies.

A horrible urge to retch came upon her as she thought of the poor slave girl lying in the dark, her body hideously deformed and mutilated, never to receive a proper burial—not even in the crude patch of land that the laborers used for that purpose, close to the northernmost part of the stone wall that encircled Orthanc. Gúthwyn had seen a woman laid to rest there once. A strong ash-wind had been the cause of her death: the slaves with her at the time had not been able to get her to stop choking. Gúthwyn was unable to remember the worker's name, and it was chilling to think that a person could disappear from all recall so swiftly. She desperately hoped that that was not her lot, though at the moment her future looked quite grim.

And so slowly the minutes, and then the hours, passed by, with one despairing contemplation replacing the next, ranging from thoughts of her own death to thoughts of never being let out of this abominable place. Whenever those took over her mind, the swelling panic rose up within her again, until she felt like a barrel that had too much wine in it—sooner or later, it was bound to break from the pressure.

A wild hunger had been growing within her, overshadowed by a flaming thirst. While eventually the ravenous feeling was reduced to a dull ache, her parched mouth could not forget its pains. She began to feel dizzy once more, and the throbbing of her wound was becoming louder and louder in her ears.

As outside the sun rose high above Isengard and began its descent towards Valinor, the Blessed Realm where no illness or death fell, Gúthwyn's strength ebbed away like the last golden rays that lingered in the sky. She was utterly exhausted, but the dwindling shred of reason within her mind refused to listen to her body's wishes. Also keeping her aware of the living world was that Warg, whose eyes were slowly starting to burn unnoticeable holes in her. Yet this was not the most pressing trouble.

The night was still young when the first waves of dizziness were brought upon her. Gúthwyn felt her head reel; her eyes crossed, and before she knew it, she had collapsed against the side of the cage, a numb buzzing filling her mind. The temptation to sleep was so strong that her eyes were closed before she became aware of it. With a soft moan she pushed herself up and dug her nails into her arm. The sharp pains were enough to fend away the sleep that sought to claim her.

_You cannot fall now,_ she told herself exhaustedly, watching listlessly as a few drops of blood collected where her nails had been.

"But… want to go to sleep…" she mumbled. As soon as she uttered those words, she felt her eyelids shutting again, and she was almost powerless to stop them.

_No!_ her mind screamed at her. _Remain awake or die!_

Groaning, Gúthwyn placed her dirty fingers on her eyelids and pulled them apart. In the process something got into her eye, and she began blinking rapidly. This, in the end, effectively drove away all thoughts of slumber, and for close to an hour she had peace. It was now midnight, though she had no way of knowing this—it was impossible to tell one black hour from the next.

As the desire to sleep was lulled, a new worry pushed itself to the front of her mind. Her wound, which had been a dull ache until now, suddenly blazed with pain; she nearly cried out from the torture of it. Clasping her hand to the bite and screwing her face against the agony, she rocked back and forth. Several minutes of this passed before the wound stopped throbbing, and with a shuddering sigh of relief Gúthwyn was able to cautiously pull her hand away.

_I hope it is not infected,_ she prayed anxiously. If it was, she did not have much chance of surviving at all, and she was already finding the task to be the most difficult thing she had ever faced.

It was even worse than the hazy journey to Isengard, she reflected dully, for at least then she had been allowed a good night's rest. Or she presumed so, anyway. Those pages of her memory had been smudged and torn almost beyond reading. She could barely even remember the hunter. All that she could recall were his eyes—hard and black, like a tunnel that reached far away and had a dark end.

A sudden rage filled Gúthwyn as she thought of the hellish trip the man had put her through, and the far worse sin he had committed of murdering her brother and sister. She knew he had, even though she had not seen their death confirmed. Had she not dreamed it? Fury pulsing in her veins, she decided that if she ever saw the hunter at Isengard again, no matter how far into the future it was, she would kill him.

In her young, innocent naïveté, she had no doubt that she would be the determiner of his fate. But the sudden flames of wrath had quelled a great deal of her energy, and she was once again beset with a sudden loss of direction and mind. This one took even longer to recover from, and it frightened her. The spells were coming faster now, and for a greater span of time.

The night wore on. In the Wizard's Vale, all was silent. Ever and anon, a deep-throated sound could be heard from the trees of the nearby Fangorn Forest. The watchmen looked at each other with frowning eyes. To the slaves, it was somehow relaxing, and many of them slept easier that night; but Cobryn tossed and turned, his dreams troubled by unanswered questions. In Orthanc, Saruman paced his study ceaselessly.

Not one of them saw the cage beginning to take its toll on Gúthwyn. As the morning dawned the next day, the circles under her eyes were suddenly far more pronounced than just hours before. They shadowed sunken eyes that palely reflected the unrelenting stare of the Warg. Her throat was constricted, having not had a drink for close to thirty-six hours. The stomach was faring poorly as well; it had shrunk until the skin was clinging to her ribs.

She had not heard the voices for a long time, but to Gúthwyn it did not feel like they had disappeared—it was as if they were waiting. Her ragged breathing quickened at the thought. When would they return? Would her life be fading as they did? The Warg bite pulsed painfully in response. It was hurting worse than before, when it had been a dull pounding easily ignored. Thinking was becoming difficult.

Far, far away, the sun began rising, casting the first rays of weak light upon the grounds. But inside the enclosure, all was black—with the sole exception of the Warg's eyes. Gúthwyn felt them there, knew they were watching her. She was certainly not aware of much else; she had been surprised when she had stretched her arms out only to have them press against the bars of the cage. Slowly but surely all reason was dwindling from her.

The slaves were now starting their first shift. Gúthwyn wished that she could hear them, but she had discovered that, in addition to light, this Warg pen was an effective shield against sound. One by one, the other laborers punished in this manner had soon succumbed to the madness of solitude; had anyone known about their fates, they would have deemed it too soon. But Gúthwyn was unaware of this.

All she knew was that her senses seemed to be dulling, until her mind was trapped in an unmoving, unfeeling body. A weariness as she had never known before came on her, and her eyes began to close.

_No_, she thought dimly, _I have to keep them open_.

_But why bother?_ another side of her wanted to know. _You will die anyway… why not now?_

Gúthwyn saw, with a strange calmness, that two paths were being laid before her at this moment. She could die, or she could live. The daughter of Éomund was aware that she was at the door of death, and yet no alarm was stirring up within her. With the casual eyes of a spectator, she glanced down the two paths, which had formed right in front of her.

The one pointing to the West, on her left, was a brilliant white, strewn with sparkling gems and lined with trees such as she had not seen before in her life. Pale, translucent beings were drifting down it, carefree looks upon their beautiful faces; a golden glow suffused them. In the far distance, she could just see the outline of a tall white tower. But in the East, to her right, all was dark, and no one walked there. However, as she gazed at it, a strange figure dashed nimbly over it. The unexpected action did not allow Gúthwyn a clear glimpse of their identity, but she thought she caught a flash of golden hair.

_What shall you do now?_ she questioned herself. _Where shall you go?_

One more she glanced at the western path. It was extremely inviting, and she felt that if she were to take it, all of her fears and unhappiness and exhaustion would be swept away, never to return. The eastern road offered nothing more than suffering. But when she inspected it closer, she imagined that she had seen a brief glance of a clear light, far away at the very end.

Hesitantly at first, Gúthwyn stretched out her hand towards the left, and she felt her body begin to slow down. Her breathing became even, and she seemed to need less air than before. She felt wonderfully relaxed, as if she were in her own bed again, being put to sleep by Théoden.

As she thought of Rohan, her hand paused, and she wondered whether she was making the right choice. Could she really leave Middle-earth behind and never see her beloved land and its people again?

_But I will be with Éowyn and Éomer_, she reminded herself, and her hand began to move closer to the western path. It was so tempting to let go of everything and make her dwelling at the Halls of Mandos. The Warg eyes would disappear, never to be seen again.

As that Warg came to mind, she stiffened. The memory of the poor, mutilated girl had just resurfaced, and she realized with a shock that the child had faced the same choice that was presently laid before Gúthwyn. So had the other slaves, whose corpses now lay, utterly defiled, all around her. She knew what they had chosen.

_I cannot let that happen_, she vowed. With a sudden strength of mind she pulled her hand eastward, feeling as she did so the stabs of pain that had been fading away. Her body protested, wishing back the utter relaxation it had experienced. But she continued moving her hand towards the eastern road, willing herself to keep going. Soon it would all be over.

With a sudden gasp Gúthwyn wrenched her eyes open, the thirst and hunger and pain all resurfacing at once. How long she had lain in that state—was it a dream?—she did not know, but she was painfully aware of all her sufferings that now seemed to be magnified tenfold. An unquenchable hunger and thirst were ravaging her body, accompanied by the blazing agony of the Warg bite. It was so unbearable that Gúthwyn nearly cried; several times, tears formed in her eyes before she stubbornly brushed them away.

Her brush with death had left her shaken, and as she tried to ignore her aches and pains, she found herself trembling uncontrollably. What was the most frightening was that, when the choice had come, to perish or to survive, she had not found the possibility of death alarming; in fact, it had been difficult for her to turn away from it. If such an event happened again, who was to say that she would be able to resist the western path?

In the Wizard's Vale, the slaves were finishing their final shift, retiring to the stone ring after another day of labor. The sun was just beginning to set, as She journeyed longer in the hot months of summer. Summer always been Gúthwyn's favorite time of year; now, however, she could not appreciate any of it, not when she was trapped in this abominable place. The Warg eyes had still not vanished, and she was growing more and more disquieted by how long it had been watching her.

Though her circumstances were dire, and chances of survival were slim to none at best, a tiny beacon of hope was kindled within Gúthwyn's exhausted mind. The realization that her second day was nearly over had crept up on her, and even with the prospect of another sleepless night, she knew that shortly after that, she would be set free.

_I might make it_, she thought dazedly. _Only one more night in this cage; next afternoon, I will be out_.

But that was when she slipped.

For as night closed about the Nan Curunír, spreading a soft velvet blanket over the grounds, the silence became deafening. The Warg eyes blinked and vanished. Gúthwyn was too fatigued to think much of it. But when all was quiet, and darkness was surrounding her, the voices came.

In complete contrast to Gúthwyn's position, Saruman sat with ease upon his throne in Orthanc. Before him was the table upon which the _palantír_ stood, though at the moment he was not using it. His mind was currently bent on his diminished Warg cavalry. It was a sore blow to him, for he often employed the beasts to go on raids through the country of Rohan. In addition, it would take years to breed and develop them to their full strength.

His eyes flashed as he thought once more of Gúthwyn, the insolent niece of Théoden. How he wished he had a worse punishment than the cage! But no matter—she would fall soon. None had yet survived; an ancient spell of his rendered all that were held there mad. A stay in the cage conjured up all sorts of voices: from the person's past, their present, and their dreams. Solitude, the White Wizard knew, had the power to take the sanity of even the most strong-willed creature. A push in the right direction just had to be given.

And when Gúthwyn succumbed to the voices, as was inevitable, he would feed her to the Wargs, regardless of whether she remained alive. So he would dispose of this over-proud, contemptuous woman. A grim smile briefly passed over his features, like the cold sun casting a fleeting look upon a hard and barren landscape.

Suddenly, as he glanced at the cloth under which the _palantír_ was hidden, he saw from within a red glow take shape. The doors were locked; with haste, the wizard rose from his seat and came to the pedestal, whipping off the black material and tossing it carelessly to the side. His mind cautioned him to be wary, for the Dark Lord as yet had not heard about the Wargs. He would have to go about breaking the news carefully.

As these thoughts passed through his mind, the Eye of Sauron appeared gradually; at first only a speck in the cold stone, then growing until it filled the globe. Saruman thrust out his hand and held it over the _palantír_, thus forging the link of communication.

_Saruman,_ Sauron began, his voice menacing even to those who feared him not, _it is long since I had any report from Isengard._

_So it is, my lord,_ Saruman replied, never once moving his lips. For one conversed in thought when using the _palantíri_, such as the design of Fëanor had been.

_Have you a reason for this?_ the Eye pressed impatiently.

_Many things have required my attention as of late,_ the White Wizard responded guardedly.

_Explain yourself,_ Sauron commanded.

Saruman knew that he would have to word his next sentences very carefully, for it would not help his plans were he to infuriate the Dark Lord. _There has been a slight hitch in the breeding of the Wargs,_ he began, keeping his tone even.

_How so?_ the Eye wanted to know.

Changing his tone so it was that of someone annoyed by a minor inconvenience, Saruman replied, _Due to an unfortunate incident not three days ago, a small number of them have perished._

The White Wizard could sense the Maia's displeasure as keenly as if it were an Elven-wrought spear being thrust into him. _How did this come about?_ the Eye demanded angrily. _I was under the impression that you took more care of your creations—need I to send a messenger to ensure your competency?_

Saruman knew very well the nature of the messengers that Sauron employed; nor would he allow any of them to pass into Orthanc. It was protected by such spells that even another Maia such as himself would have difficulty breaking.

_There was a problem with one of the cages,_ he explained to the Eye. _None of the Warg-riders or the Uruk-hai had reported that the gate was in need of repair, so when it broke, I was unaware of even a fault in its making. And because of that, some of the Wargs escaped._

_I trust that you will be punishing your foolish servants,_ Sauron responded.

_The great majority of them are dead,_ Saruman answered, _and the Warg-riders are too important for me to risk losing. But I have taken appropriate steps in the direction of another._ At this he fell silent. The Dark Lord was already irritated, and Saruman knew that the fact that a woman had slaughtered a large amount of Wargs would make him furious. He would have to go about his next few sentences very carefully.

As though he knew what the wizard was thinking, Sauron said, _I have not the time for these contemptible riddle games. Explain the incident clearly, or I shall send someone to assess the damage in your place._

Saruman was aware that he was treading on thin ice, yet it would be worse for him if he did not tell the truth. There was nothing to be gained from not doing so, and everything to lose.

_Shortly after the Wargs were freed, a slave destroyed them all; I have sent them to the cage, and they will be removed from their miserable existence,_ the White Wizard spoke.

_Who was this person?_ Sauron inquired, his Eye narrowing in a manner that told Saruman that he needed to elucidate quickly.

_She is Gúthwyn of Rohan,_ Saruman answered, waiting for the inevitable ridicule.

He was surprised when the Eye's gaze became less annoyed. _A woman!_ the Eye exclaimed. _She cannot have killed more than two._

_No, my Lord, I am afraid you are mistaken,_ Saruman began. _She slaughtered all fifteen that were loose._

If looks could kill, the White Wizard would have perished instantly. The Dark Lord's Eye was blazing with wrath. _A _woman_ managed to ruin your cavalry?_ it said, its voice raised to nearly intolerable heights. _How can that be possible?_

_My Lord, I have mentioned that she was from Rohan,_ Saruman responded, remaining as calm as it was possible to be in a situation such as this. _It is in that country that they train their women to fight alongside the men; it is my belief that she is quite skilled._ He did not mention, of course, that she was related to the King, and would have received better instruction than most. He had kept her identity a secret, asking no ransom of Théoden the fool—her knowledge of Gríma's character would ruin all of his plans concerning Rohan.

The Eye had fallen silent, contemplating something that, at the moment, Saruman could not comprehend. As he waited, the White Wizard twisted absent-mindedly the ring he bore upon his finger.

At length, the Dark Lord spoke, and when he did Saruman was not sure he had understood him properly. _Have this woman sent to me,_ the Eye ordered. _You obviously cannot control her, and I am in need of a warrior who knows what they are doing. Perhaps she can even become a captain one day. If all else fails, she can provide my men with some amusement._

Saruman, though too adept at concealing his emotions to show surprise, was nevertheless astounded at this extraordinary announcement. _My Lord, she is but a woman. No service could she render to you that would be of any worth._ He did not add that, at the moment, she was locked in a cage, soon to be dead if not already.

_Will you question my commands?_ Sauron asked dangerously. Then his voice became almost excited. _Think of the possibilities this may bring. Should this one perform admirably, thousands more of her kind could be added to my forces. When the time for war comes, the Free Peoples will not find it in their hearts to slaughter a woman, as it goes against all of their morals. Their foolishness in this matter will be their undoing._

Saruman saw the wisdom behind this, but it was impossible for him to imagine women fighting in an army. The very thought was ludicrous. However, it was not his place to go openly against the fallen Maia, as the time was not yet ripe for him to reveal his own plans. _As you wish, my Lord,_ he spoke, inclining his head at the slightest angle, and praying that the Rohirric girl had not yet passed away. _When do you wish me to send her?_

_As soon as can be arranged,_ Sauron responded. _I am very interested in the outcome of this experiment._

_I am sending out a troop of Uruk-hai on a scouting expedition in three days,_ Saruman said. _They will bring her to the Black Gate for you._

_Good,_ the Dark Lord commented. _I will look for her three weeks from then, at the latest._

And with that, he was gone.


	16. Release

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifteen:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. As for the location of the Warg stables, in _The Atlas of Middle-earth_, there are only 'Wolf Stables' labeled, and so I have taken this to mean that this was where Wargs were created/housed. If anyone has any suggestions concerning this assumption, I'd be grateful to hear them. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters—sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing.

**Chapter Fifteen**

Slowly, Saruman placed the cloth over the _palantír_ once more, turning back to sit on his throne. In all of his years in Middle-earth, he had seen nothing of the like. It was near unfathomable that a woman could possibly be of any use to any army, however small and inexperienced. And yet Gúthwyn had destroyed fifteen Wargs—perhaps she was an exception.

As he thought of the Wargs, he realized that he needed to get her out of the cage as soon as was possible. Judging by the weak light that had been filtering into Orthanc for awhile now, it was about five or six hours from noon.

Standing up, the wizard grabbed his staff and strode towards the stairs. He had commanded the Orcs and Men that served him to go no higher than the entrance hall that night, and he knew he would find some of them there. Quickening his pace, he swiftly descended the stairs and so came to his destination.

As soon as they were aware of him, his servants leapt to their feet, standing stiffly before him. Saruman took no notice, save for a Man that was addressed by the name of Wulf, a descendant of the very one who led an invasion on Rohan in the Long Winter of 2758. It was for this reason that the White Wizard had made him captain of the Dunlendings.

"You," he now snapped at him, "Go to slaves' quarters and find the room where the Mûlnothrim clan dwell. There is a tall man in there—the rest are women or children. Take him, and him only, down to the Warg stables immediately. If he puts up a struggle, tell him that I will have her killed."

"As you wish, my Lord," Wulf replied, bowing before he departed from Orthanc. Saruman nodded. Of course, he had no intention of murdering this slave (who was certainly causing him more trouble than she was worth)—quite the opposite, but the foolish men needed not to know that.

With a barely-concealed scowl, Saruman turned to an Orc who had a particularly menacing collection of hair pellets lining his belt. "Go down to the Warg stables and tell Sharkû that he will allow the man to retrieve the girl. But if the man does anything, Sharkû may threaten him with her life."

The Orc nodded, and following Wulf swiftly left Orthanc. There was now one last order that needed to be carried out. With a slight nod of his head, Saruman indicated the two Uruks in the room and motioned them forward. They obliged speedily and silently, regarding the wizard with narrowed eyes.

"When the girl is out of the cage, I want you to wait two days before bringing her to me. Drag her if you must, I care not how she gets here. Do you understand?"

Deep, hissing breaths came from under their helmets in response. "Good," Saruman spoke. He then glanced at the rest of his servants. "You may now resume your duties," he said; then he turned, and began to ascend the stairs. Not one of them would dare to begin the climb until the White Wizard had lodged himself in his study once more. Saruman knew this, and it made him pleased to know that he had achieved that level of voiceless control over them.

Now, he had only to wait for his orders to be carried out.

Cobryn was usually the first one awake in the mornings, and today proved to be no exception. For almost half an hour he had been sitting on his cot, watching the other Mûlnothrim, wondering what their dreams were. His had not been pleasant—they were filled with horrible images of Lebryn stumbling into the dwelling, barely able to walk, bringing the news that Chalibeth was dead and that Gúthwyn was serving out a three-day punishment in the cage.

No one had taken this blow well. They were losing two members of their clan, for none had ever survived Gúthwyn's punishment; nor had their bodies ever been recovered. As a matter of fact, Chalibeth's own corpse was nowhere to be found. Lebryn had reported that, after some Orcs had dragged him out from under the Warg, he had seen nothing but a dark pool of blood some twenty feet away from him.

Cobryn had a sneaking suspicion that the Wargs had devoured it while Lebryn was asleep, but it was not his place to bring such morbid thoughts in a time of grief. The Mûlnothrim had been almost silent for near three days now, as none could put into words what they were thinking within.

With a sigh, Cobryn morosely twisted his thin and tattered blanket. Recently, Feride had taken to being in his company. Like him, no tears had escaped her eyes at news of Chalibeth and Gúthwyn's fates; they both were unable to express their grief in the ways that the other Mûlnothrim chose.

A sudden banging noise, interrupting his thoughts, caused him to snap his head up so fast that he got a crick in his neck. When he saw what its source was, he leapt to his feet. One of Saruman's Mannish servants stood before him, having just kicked the door open.

"What do you want?" Cobryn asked, his heart beating rapidly. Eying the intruder's belt, he saw that an assortment of knives was arrayed upon it. There would be no way to defend anyone…

"I have orders," the man grunted, "to take you to the Warg stables. If you put up a struggle, the girl will be killed."

Cobryn gave a start—surely that meant… but no, it could not be… was Gúthwyn still _alive?_ He looked suspiciously at the man. Was this a trap?

"Move." The man was growing impatient, and he fingered his knife delicately as he spoke. Having no other choice but to obey, Cobryn nodded, and followed the man as he left the room. A quick glance back before the door shut showed that only one had been roused by the sudden disturbance: Feride. She stirred briefly; for a moment her grey eyes met his, and they widened with shock.

The journey over to the Warg stables was highly unpleasant, as the man was not walking nearly as fast as Cobryn would have liked him to. Before they were halfway there, Cobryn found himself wishing he could take the person's neck and break it. Had it been his decision, they would have sprinted the whole way there. He was not yet sure if a trick was being played on him or not, but a small voice in the back of his head said otherwise.

"What do you know of Gúthwyn?" Cobryn demanded, allowing an imperious tone to enter his voice, not once breaking his stride.

The man stopped, and Cobryn suppressed a groan. Could these servants not walk and talk at the same time?

"I am the great Wulf," the man said, at the same time grabbing Cobryn by the shirt and pulling him forward. "My ancestors destroyed the kings. If I want you to speak, I will question you. Now keep your mouth shut, or she will die." With that, he let go of the slave, and began to move once more.

Cobryn followed him, wondering at the information he had just heard. He remembered reading about the Long Winter of 2758; how a man named Wulf had for a time sat upon the throne of Rohan, while the hero Helm was besieged within the confines of Helm's Deep. Wulf Saruman's servant must have some Dunlending blood within him, Cobryn reflected.

A quick glance ahead of him showed that they were nearing the Warg stables. He hastened his strides, eager to arrive there. Though relief that Gúthwyn seemed to be alive was clouding his senses somewhat, he could not help noticing that it had not yet been three days. Why was she being taken out earlier than usual? He could see no reason for Saruman wishing to keep her in the world of the living.

At length they came upon the threshold of the stables, the door of which Wulf knocked upon five times before he was answered by Sharkû.

"Is this the one?" Sharkû questioned, with a jerk of his head at Cobryn.

"Yes," Wulf grunted.

"Good." A disfigured, filthy hand reached out and grasped Cobryn's arm. "Get in here, boy," Sharkû snapped. Cobryn obliged, stepping inside the dark cavern. As the door slammed shut, he saw Wulf turning back to Orthanc.

"Where is she?" Cobryn asked, twisting his hand free of the Warg-rider's grasp.

"Be quiet," Sharkû would only tell him angrily as they began walking towards the cages. Cobryn, after swiftly scanning the cavern and seeing Gúthwyn nowhere, realized that she must still be in the cage. His curiosity was heightened. What exactly was it making this punishment so horrible that none remained alive after it was filled out? It seemed that he would learn of it this day.

Sharkû strode closer to the cage bathed in darkness, Cobryn so close on his heels that he could have served as the Warg-rider's shadow. When they were but fifteen feet away, Sharkû flung out his arm and hit Cobryn square in the chest.

"Stay here," the Warg-rider ordered. "She will come to you."

Feeling a twinge of irritation at this command, Cobryn nevertheless obeyed and remained where he was, squinting into the blackness obscuring what lay within the cage. Sharkû alone went forward, stretching out his hand to undo the lock. With a soft _click_ the door swung open, and yet Cobryn still could see nothing. The Warg-rider took barely one step into the enclosure before he was swallowed up by the gloom, his silhouetted figure swiftly fading against the dark, until his progress could be tracked only by his dim footsteps.

To Cobryn it seemed like he was waiting for an hour. Following a long period of silence, a loud creaking noise made him jump; it was nothing he had ever heard before in this place. It sounded to him like a rusty pulley system, sort of like the one that he had used to get water from the well when he lived in Gondor. But what could a pulley system possibly be doing in such a place as the Warg stables?

After a short time span the sounds stopped, to be replaced by Sharkû's footsteps. Cobryn listened intently, but he was puzzled when he did not hear a second set coming after them. He felt himself growing nervous—was Gúthwyn so injured that she was unable to walk?

He did not have to wait long to find out, however. Within a moment, he could see Sharkû reappearing from the darkness, until the Warg-rider's form was fully visible in the light. Cobryn craned his neck, but he could not make out Gúthwyn's body in the creature's arms, nor could he see her following him.

"Where is she?" Cobryn asked Sharkû angrily, feeling that if any harm had come to her in the cage he would strangle the abominable creature. After all, he thought as his eyes flicked around the cavern, none of the other Orcs or Uruk-hai were there to see it happen, as they were completing some sentry duty that morning.

"She will come, in due time," Sharkû grinned. Cobryn looked at him uneasily. He did not like the laughter that was obvious in the Warg-rider's voice. What was going on?

He made to move forward again, but a sharp reprimand from Sharkû stopped him: "Boy, I told you to stay where you are!" Cobryn obliged, but his hands were curling into fists as he did so. "She will come, in due time," Sharkû repeated menacingly. He then turned back to the cage with the look of an idle spectator watching a tedious game.

Cobryn clenched his teeth together in anger, his eyes not once leaving the entrance to the enclosure. Where was Gúthwyn? He hated this helpless feeling that was coming over him: not knowing anything, and being able to do naught about it, was a situation that he loathed.

Suddenly he was quite still. He thought he had just heard something… could it be? As he strained his ears, he realized that the sounds now coming from the cage were no footsteps. A deep foreboding washed over him. The noise was of an odd shuffling kind, one that he was unable to understand. Sharkû seemed to, however, for the Warg-rider was noticeably leaning forward, his interest piqued. Cobryn leaned forward as well, though for the life of him he could not understand what was going on.

Another minute passed as the shuffling grew louder. Cobryn was about to abandon all orders and run into the cage to retrieve Gúthwyn when a movement within the darkness caught his eye. He stared at it as it drew closer and closer, until with a horrified gasp he realized what it was.

On all fours, crawling like a wounded beast, emerged Gúthwyn from the cage. Wild, tangled hair hung over most of her face, but he could soon see that she had no idea of her surroundings. She was not moving in a straight line; rather, she was limping crookedly, as though she were drunk. Ever so often she would glance up from the ground, and the first time she did so Cobryn felt sick. Her entire face was covered with dried blood, its source a nasty greenish color. Her blue eyes were blurred and spinning wildly; they seemed to be as weak as the rest of her, for she held a filthy hand over them to shield them from the dim light. Even from five yards away, Cobryn could tell that she stank.

"Gúthwyn!" he cried out, but for all the notice she gave him he may as well have been mute. Instead, incapable of knowing what she was doing, Gúthwyn began crawling towards Sharkû, and at last collapsed pitifully at his feet, where the Warg-rider stared at her like she was a foul substance covering his boots.

"Move, you foolish girl!" Sharkû barked, withdrawing his whip and cracking it in the air. "Or do I need to teach you a lesson?"

Gúthwyn seemed to hear him; at any rate, she attempted to push herself up, but the effort was too much, and her arms could bear her weight no longer. With a soft moan she fell to the ground once more.

"That's it!" Sharkû snarled, raising his whip.

"NO!" Cobryn shouted, sprinting towards the Warg-rider and stopping just two feet from him. "Please, let me take her back, I can—" He was cut off as Sharkû swung the whip at him. Unable to duck in time, he felt a painful stinging across his cheek and tasted blood on his lips.

"You will both be punished," Sharkû decided, a twisted grin upon his evil face. "Interfere once more, boy, and I will have her killed." And with that, he brought his whip down with a sickening _crack_ upon Gúthwyn's back, the tail end of the leather strip catching Cobryn about the ankles and drawing tiny droplets of blood.

Gúthwyn groaned feebly, and Sharkû shoved Cobryn away from her. "Stay where you are!" he barked at the slave as he lashed her once more.

Cobryn stood for a few seconds, debating with himself about what to do. He could not let Gúthwyn take the punishment—the poor girl was curling her knees to her chest, uselessly trying to ward off some of the blows—but it was like as not that they would both be punished by death were he to stop Sharkû.

As Gúthwyn began sobbing quietly, the whip cracking down on her and drawing scarlet blood, Cobryn made his decision.

With a snarl, he launched himself over Gúthwyn and at Sharkû, sending the Warg-rider flying and at the same time intercepting the bite of the whip. Refusing to show the pain, he instead channeled it into rage, punching the creature as hard as he was able. Caught by surprise, Sharkû lost valuable time—before the Warg-rider had gotten to his feet, Cobryn had leapt off of him and seized Gúthwyn in his arms.

Knowing very well that he was signing his death warrant, Cobryn began sprinting as fast as he had the power to, heading for the door leading out into the grounds. Behind him, he could hear shouts of rage from Sharkû as he, too, took up the chase. By the sounds of it, he was running a lot faster than Cobryn, who was impeded by the weight, little though it was, of Gúthwyn.

Cobryn was beginning to feel afraid. The door was several yards away, and Sharkû was swiftly gaining. What if the Warg-rider caught him? He did not want to think of it. Perhaps if he was lucky, he would be able to seize one of the creature's knives… And then he saw the wall by the door. As always, it was covered in the weapons of Saruman's cavalry servants. Setting his sights on it, he began running faster than before, though not enough to lengthen the gap that was slowly dwindling between him and Sharkû.

He could hear the slapping feet of Sharkû with alarming clarity as he reached the wall. Shifting Gúthwyn's weight over to his left hand, he seized a sword with his right and turned around swiftly with it. Sharkû stopped dead, just inches away from the iron point. Had Cobryn been any slower, hope would have been lost.

His breathing somehow very still, Cobryn glared at the Warg-rider, venom pouring from his eyes, a hatred directed towards the creature who had treated Gúthwyn as though she were a dog.

"Attempt to stop me from leaving," he spoke to Sharkû, his normally mild voice shaking with rage, "and you will never live to see another miserable day. After what you did to her, I will give you no mercy."

Sharkû's eyes, had they the ability to do so, would have struck Cobryn dead instantly. But with the tip of Cobryn's blade in his face, he could neither do nor say anything. Cobryn began backing away from him, using his foot to guide him towards the door, not about to take his eyes off of the Warg-rider for even an instant. Gúthwyn was limp in his arms, completely unaware of what was going on.

His anxiety for her well being quickening his steps, Cobryn soon arrived at the door, still holding out the sword to guard against Sharkû, who had stepped forward as the blade receded. And now he was at a difficult point—how was he going to open the door? He had Gúthwyn in one hand and a sword in the other. Sharkû seemed to have noticed this: the creature smirked, drawing as close as he dared to the man.

Thinking of an idea, Cobryn stepped to the side of the door and aimed the sword directly at Sharkû's chest. "Open the door," he commanded. "Hold it open until I pass. If you say anything, I will kill you. If you do anything, I will kill you. Your options are limited, and only by doing what I order can you survive." It was incredibly strange for him, a slave, to be telling the captain of the Warg cavalry what to do. He was going to pay for it well, he knew.

If looks could kill, both Cobryn and Gúthwyn would have dropped dead. But Sharkû was forced to do as Cobryn had bid. With a snarl, he yanked the door open and held it in place, staring fixedly at the point of the blade, waiting for the moment when it slumped in the worker's grip.

However, Cobryn did not let his arm slacken even the slightest bit as he backed out into the sunlight. When, after what seemed like eternity, his feet were outside of the cavern, he spoke once more to Sharkû. "Close the door. Do not come after us."

With a hideous glare, the Warg-rider did as he was told. The door slammed shut with a loud _bang_. Cobryn breathed a sigh of relief. He had saved Gúthwyn, for the time being. Now he needed to get her to Abaudia.

Lowering his sword, he held it point down and distributed Gúthwyn's weight more evenly. Checking back ever so often to make sure that Sharkû was not following him, he began making his way to the Mûlnothrim dwelling. His progress was not impeded overmuch by Gúthwyn's body; he was astounded at how light she seemed to be.

Swiftly, he glanced over the rest of her injuries. He knew from Lebryn's tale that a Warg had bitten her on the cheek—from the look of it, the wound was about to become infected. Some of the mangled flesh was already turning a sickly green. The rest of it was coated with dried blood; Cobryn was relieved that it did not appear to still be bleeding.

Her back was not as bad. Though Sharkû's whip had drawn blood, perhaps more than was good for Gúthwyn at this point, the wounds were not fatal. He could feel the bleeding slowing down and hardening on the numerous welts that had previously been there. He knew, however, that Abaudia would want to check over all of her abrasions equally.

Suddenly Gúthwyn stirred, and she gazed up at him with blurry eyes. Not wanting to stop, for he was already halfway to the stone ring, Cobryn kept on moving, but he now looked down at her more often. At length, he heard a few mumbled words, though he could not make them out.

"Gúthwyn, I cannot hear you," he told her, raising her so that her head was closer to his ear. She murmured once more, and this time Cobryn caught a name.

"Éomer?" Her voice was faint and weak, and it sounded as though she were in dire need of water.

Cobryn did not know who this Éomer was. When he did not answer, Gúthwyn spoke again, this time coughing slightly from the effort. "Théodred?"

Frowning, Cobryn realized that this name was familiar. Where had he heard it before?

"Uncle?" Gúthwyn tried once more.

"No," Cobryn responded softly. "It is I, Cobryn."

Gúthwyn's eyes seemed to focus on him for half a second; then, she collapsed once more. Frantically, Cobryn stopped and checked her pulse, but it was there—what surprised him was that it was faster than his own. Nevertheless, a feeling of relief such as he had not known before came over him.

"Cobryn!" The shout was loud and anxious. Startled, Cobryn looked up, and saw Feride running towards him. Her face was drawn with worry and anxiety.

"I have her!" Cobryn exclaimed as Feride drew closer. She stopped before him, drawing a sharp breath when she saw Gúthwyn.

"We need to get her to Abaudia. Now."

"Take this," Cobryn said, handing her the sword. "I do not think Sharkû will come after us now, but it can never hurt to be armed."

Feride stared at him in puzzlement. "But how—?"

"I will explain later. Please, we must ensure Gúthwyn's safety first."

Feride took a better look at Gúthwyn. Her brows knitted, and to Cobryn's puzzlement she lifted up one of the girl's eyelids. Her face grew grave as she did so.

"What is it?" Cobryn asked, feeling slightly panicky.

"Cobryn… did she say anything to you?" Feride wondered.

"Yes," Cobryn responded as they came nearer to the ring. "She did not seem to know where she was, or what was going on. She did not know who I was."

It seemed his answer only elevated Feride's concerned expression. "Cobryn," she said sadly, "even if Abaudia can heal her physically… do you think she will come back?"

It took a few minutes for her words to sink in. When they did, Cobryn's throat felt dry. "She cannot be mad… No, that cannot be!"

"Cobryn," Feride started, but just then the door leading into the Mûlnothrim's room swung open, and Abaudia stuck her head out and glared at them.

"Hurry!" she barked. "I sent Feride out to get you a minute ago, we must not waste time!"

Slightly abashed, Cobryn and Feride hurried forward. As they stepped into the cooler recesses of the stone ring, they saw that the whole clan had crowded in the middle of the room, waiting for their return.

"Move along, move along," Abaudia said briskly to them, her eyes fearful as she saw Gúthwyn. "Lay her on my bed," she ordered Cobryn. "We have much to speak of."

Cobryn did as he was told, gently putting Gúthwyn's limp form down.

"Feride, get me the water bucket and some rags," Abaudia commanded. Slightly flustered, Feride hastened to obey. While she did this, the elder woman turned to Cobryn. "Has she had anything to eat or drink?" she asked.

"I do not know," Cobryn admitted. Abaudia leaned forward, placing her hand upon Gúthwyn's breast.

"Her heart is beating too quickly," she muttered, more to herself than anyone.

Just then, Feride came back with the water bucket and rags. "Here," she said breathlessly, holding them out.

"Put them on the floor," Abaudia told her, now taking Gúthwyn's hand in her own.

"I could feel her pulse," Cobryn offered. "It seemed too fast to me."

In response, Abaudia took a rag and dipped it into the water. "Hold her mouth open," she told Cobryn. When Cobryn obliged, she held the soaking rag over Gúthwyn and squeezed all of the excess drops into her throat and on her lips. For a moment, Gúthwyn choked, but eventually she swallowed the liquid.

"That will do for now," Abaudia said, her voice betraying her nervousness. "Food will be given later, when she awakes. Now I must tend to the bite."

"Is there anything I can do to help?" Cobryn wanted to know. He felt utterly useless, sitting by the elder woman's side while Gúthwyn hovered on the brink of death.

"When you got her out, where was she? How were the conditions?" Abaudia questioned, dipping the rag once more in water and beginning to clean off the blood on Gúthwyn's face.

Cobryn sighed. "I did not get a chance to see," he said, and then told Abaudia all that had transpired in the Warg stables. Not once did the older woman pause in her ministrations; rather, she looked as though she were only half-listening to Cobryn's story. But when he had finished, her mouth had thinned into a grim line.

"Cobryn, you know you will be punished," she whispered sadly.

Cobryn nodded. "How is she?" he asked. Abaudia looked worriedly at him.

"Not well, I fear," she answered. "I am afraid there is not much I can do for the bite. She will bear a mark forever, if the infection does not kill her."

"How bad is it?" Feride inquired. She was sitting on a nearby cot, her arms wrapped around a wide-eyed Onyveth.

"It will get worse, I deem; there is already a green hue to the flesh," Abaudia responded gravely. "Frankly, I am surprised she has survived at all. Though I speak much of her wound, that is naught to say regarding her lack of water and food. Those will be perilous."

"Is there nothing to be done for her?" Cobryn questioned in a pleading tone.

Abaudia shrugged. "Should I ward off her death from the bite, she will have a chance."

"Are there no herbs to help?" Cobryn persisted. "Other slaves care for acres of gardens; can we not get them to provide us with some?"

"We may—" Abaudia began, but she was cut off mid-sentence by the door slamming open and bouncing against the wall.

The entire clan stared as two Uruk-hai strode into the room, their breaths coming in menacing hisses as they stared at its inhabitants. Completely nonplussed, the others watched them in terror. At length, the larger one spoke.

"Where is the man?" it grunted. "He's to come with us, and not argue."

Cobryn stood up and walked over to the two servants, holding up his arms. He had expected no less than this, and the Uruks were puzzled at how calmly he came.

"I am he," Cobryn said, looking at the creatures unflinchingly. They nodded, and suddenly they lunged forward and seized his arms, turning him around roughly and pinning him against their chests. Onyveth shrieked, clutching at Feride like a child to her mother. As the Uruk-hai began to drag Cobryn out of the room, he glanced around at the people he had known for years and had come to regard as family. He would never see them again, he reflected dully, and as he did so his eyes fell upon Feride. She was watching him with horror-filled eyes, and as they met his, he felt an odd twinge of regret that he could not quite place.

Then the door was closing, and Cobryn's last glimpse was of Gúthwyn's still form lying on the bed. _May the Valar be with you,_ he thought, _for they have abandoned me._


	17. A Whipped Dog

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyofTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixteen:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters—sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing. The last chapter was shorter than usual, and for that I am sure you are grateful. 

**Chapter Sixteen**

"When will she awake? It has been over a day!"

"Soon, I hope. It was a miracle that she survived."

"But surely she will die without food."

"I have said before, we will give her some when she rises."

"_If_ she rises."

"Lebryn!"

The mumbled and confused voices passed through Gúthwyn's head as she slowly felt herself coming around. She found that it was difficult to understand what they were saying, even though she could hear them perfectly. Her mind was having difficulty translating the words, and as it struggled to, an overwhelming pounding feeling arose in her head.

"Abaudia, did you see that? She moved!"

All at once a great rustling and murmuring was heard. Gúthwyn groaned, trying to turn over and return to the blissful sleep she had been enjoying. But her body refused to move. Instead, pain like a thousand stinging needles poured into her, centering around the left side of her face. If sleep was heaven, surely this was hell. She groaned softly, her eyes still closed. Her mouth felt as though it were full of dirt.

"Gúthwyn, can you hear me?"

"Gúthwyn, are you awake?"

"Wait, did you just hear that? She moaned."

"I heard nothing."

"She did, I swear!"

The torrent of voices was too confusing for her to bear. She attempted to raise her arms and ward them off, but nothing happened. An agonizing light was somehow managing to penetrate through her eyelids. It stung and burned, and she wished more than ever that she could fall asleep. Why was she not doing so?"

"Do you think she is dreaming?"

"Maybe it is a nightmare."

"You heard her moan! Do you think it is about the cage?"

"Do not mention that before her!"

But it was of no use. At the word 'cage,' Gúthwyn's eyes flung open as she felt as surge of terror running through her. A collective gasp was heard as consciousness painfully returned to her.

She soon realized that she was lying on her back upon a soft surface—a bed, most likely. Her eyesight was dim and blurry, and she could vaguely make out a dark mass by her feet. For an instant, she was reminded hideously of a Warg; she felt like screaming, but she forced herself to remain silent. _You are weak,_ the voices had taunted her. _You are pathetic._ When all was dark they had came: they had driven her to what felt like madness, and then a great shadow clouded her memory. But she would not show weakness now.

"Why has she gone all stiff? Is she dead?"

"No, her eyes are moving, you fool!"

"She does not look like she recognizes us at all."

"Gúthwyn?" A soft, gentle voice was now identifiable out of the others. "Gúthwyn, dear, can you see me?"

Gúthwyn struggled to turn her head in the direction of the sound, but her entire body felt as though it were pinned under a heavy barrel. Instead her eyes attempted to focus on the voice's source, but she could just see the small outline of someone close beside her. They were hunched over slightly, as if time immeasurable had bent them where once they had been proud.

"Gúthwyn, please answer me," the voice continued. Gúthwyn thought that she knew it; with a great effort, her lips formed their name:

"Abaudia?" But the word could not escape her mouth. In its place, a dry rasping noise echoed hollowly from her throat. She realized that her throat was as parched as a desert, and in desperate need of fluids.

"Water!" she attempted to say.

"Be quiet, I think she is trying to talk!" At once, a great hush passed through the dark shadows before her, and Gúthwyn saw that they were people.

"Water!" she repeated. This time, she was rewarded with a soft croaking sound.

"Get her water!" someone ordered. A figure separated itself from the mass and disappeared from her vision, which was gradually getting better. She thought now that her guess had been right, that Abaudia had spoken to her. She was able to see the woman's unfocused form before her. Some facial features were visible now.

Suddenly, a shadow loomed above her, and she felt something being pressed against her mouth. Instinctively, she tensed.

"Gúthwyn, drink the water," Abaudia said, gently but firmly. A glorious relief rose over Gúthwyn and she hastily opened her mouth. At once the wonderfully cool liquid began pouring down her throat, washing away the horrible dusty feeling that had been there since her awakening. Greedily she swallowed faster and faster, but all too soon it was pulled away from her. She lifted her arms in a feeble attempt to reach it.

"You will become sick if you drink too much," Abaudia warned her. Gúthwyn noticed that she could now see the elder woman's eyes with much more clarity. Indeed, the rest of the room was coming into focus, and she could make out the individual people who stood in a huddled group at the foot of her bed.

There they were: Lebryn, Gwollyn, Regwyn, Onyveth, Feride, and Abaudia. Gúthwyn was in the Mûlnothrim dwelling at last. A smile tugged at her lips as she locked eyes with each one of them in turn.

All at once, a storm of cheering erupted in the tiny room. Abaudia had leaned forward to hug her, at the same time pulling Gúthwyn up to a sitting position so she could see the others better. Even Lebryn had a pleased look on his face as the clan celebrated her return to them beyond all hopes and dreams.

"Welcome back," Abaudia said warmly, stepping away from her. As she did so, Gúthwyn noticed that everyone was not before her, as she had supposed. There were two missing from their number: Chalibeth, and Cobryn. Unnoticed by most of the Mûlnothrim, who were busy rejoicing amongst themselves, a horrible wave of grief crashed upon her as she remembered the last moments of Chalibeth's life. The knowledge that she would never see her best friend again tore at her heart until her face was twisted in sorrow. Her time at Isengard would never be the same.

"Gúthwyn?" Gúthwyn jumped, and saw Abaudia's kind eyes watching her. Hastily, she blinked back a tear that had started to form, and glanced back at the woman.

"I am fine," she said, swallowing hard. "Where is Cobryn?"

The slightest frown appeared on Abaudia's face, and it sent spikes of nervousness running through Gúthwyn. But when the older woman told everyone to give Gúthwyn some breathing room, the parting crowds revealed a bed behind them, upon which was a man.

Gúthwyn gasped. "Cobryn, what happened?" Her dear friend looked as though an entire army had used him for target practice. His face was covered in bruises that were turning various shades of black and blue, and it was so swollen that his eyes were but narrowed slits. A large cut adorned his lip, and there were traces of blood around his nose. Her stare moving downwards, Gúthwyn saw that his arm had been placed in a cloth sling. He was propped up gingerly against the wall, which made her think that a few ribs had been broken; a bruised hand was gently placed over them. His right leg was placed upon a pile of rags and bound in a clumsy split. A crude crutch was leaning against the wall beside him.

Horrified, Gúthwyn stared back at his face. A weak grin was adorning it.

"I suppose I am not very fair to look upon, then?" he managed to say through puffed-up lips. Abaudia retreated to an empty cot, leaving the two of them to talk in moderate privacy. The other Mûlnothrim were busying themselves with various conversations.

"What happened? How did you come to be like this?" Gúthwyn pressed, leaning to her left as far as possible so to hear him better. As she did so, a growling hunger began to spread in her stomach.

"Do you not remember?" Cobryn asked her, but it did not seem that he expected a reply. He sighed, shifting his weight cautiously; a wince crossed his face with every movement.

Gúthwyn watched him intently, waiting for an explanation. It was almost a full minute before he spoke again. "I was sent to get you at the end of… your punishment," he began. A slight crease appeared on Gúthwyn's forehead, but she said nothing of her unease.

"I do not recall seeing you," she instead commented, twisting the frail blanket between her fingers.

"You were barely aware of yourself," Cobryn replied. "When Sharkû allowed you to leave the cage, you came out and—"

"How?" Gúthwyn interrupted.

"Excuse me?"

"How was I moving?" she repeated, attempting to sound as though the matter was of little importance. "Did I walk? I cannot think of it."

"Well… no," Cobryn responded, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "You were crawling."

Gúthwyn stared down at her hands. A sick feeling of shame crept upon her. She had stumbled out of the cage on all fours, like a whipped dog returning abashedly to its master. Truly, no pride had she left. She had thought that to be a slave was the worst dishonor that she could bring upon her family, but to know that she had been reduced to a pathetic, weak creature was a thousand times worse. Furthering her disgust, a hard lump rose in her throat, try as she might to swallow it. _Crying is for the frail,_ she reminded herself sternly. _You have brought enough shame to your household already._

"Gúthwyn?" Cobryn's voice, concerned, sounding very well as though he knew the source of her preoccupation, broke into her thoughts.

She glanced back up at him, almost afraid to meet his eyes and see the scorn that she was sure would be in them, regardless of his gentle tone. But to her relief, even to her surprise, there was naught in them but kindness.

"I am sorry," she apologized guardedly, at last managing to get rid of the lump. "I must have lost focus for a moment. Please, continue."

Cobryn clearly did not believe a word of her cover-up, but he knew her well, and did not press the subject. "When you appeared, you were unaware of what was around you. No one would have been, had your punishment been given to them. Instead of going to me, you went towards Sharkû."

Once more, Gúthwyn had to fight against the rising embarrassment within her.

"He started whipping you, ordering me to stay back. But I did not. Though it was perhaps not the smartest thing to do, I intervened. I pulled you from where you lay and ran out of the Warg stables."

Gúthwyn got the impression that this was not the full version of events, but as she was not sure that she wanted to hear more of her fragility, she did not ask for it.

"I then brought you back, but two Uruks came for me while you were being tended," he continued. Gúthwyn shuddered, trying to imagine the loathsome creatures of Saruman in the dwelling that had become her home in the past four years.

"You are lucky to have survived," she told him, pressing a hand to her stomach as it rumbled with hunger.

"I am surprised I did," Cobryn admitted. "I suppose they became tired of me, for I did not provide as much sport as they would have wished."

"What do you mean?" Gúthwyn questioned, her back stiffening. By "sport," could he possibly have meant…

"Not a sound did I let them hear," Cobryn answered. "Indeed, I did not fight them at all." Gúthwyn arched her eyebrows, but said nothing. Had it been her, she would have fought to the death.

_And yet you could not fight the Wargs… you could not protect Chalibeth,_ a nasty voice inside her head told her.

Gúthwyn blanched, once more seeing her friend lying spread-eagled on her back, unable to do naught but watch as the beasts crowded in on her. She found that she was trembling; a strong nausea was overpowering her.

"Gúthwyn, are you feeling ill?" Dimly she heard the worry in Cobryn's voice, but the next thing she knew, she was falling backwards, her head spinning. Something hard hit her skull; for a moment, all went dark.

When she came to, she was being lifted back onto the cot by Feride and Lebryn. Abaudia was rushing over as fast as she was able to, ordering the others to remain calm. The pounding feeling in Gúthwyn's head had not disappeared—rather, it was agonizingly intensified. As her back met the thin cot mattress, she felt a hideous swelling in her stomach. She leaned over the bed and retched, nearly choking on the translucent fluids that spewed upon the floor.

"Give her some room!" she heard Abaudia calling. Gúthwyn's vision swam as the woman's hands gently guided her back to a lying position on the cot. The daughter of Éomund moaned, a buzzing sound filling her head and making her feel sick again. The hunger in her stomach reached a painful pitch.

Something cool was placed on her forehead. As water came trickling down her face, Gúthwyn opened her eyes wider and saw Abaudia leaning over her, the elder woman's eyebrows furrowed with worry.

"You are burning," Abaudia muttered, removing the water-soaked rag and placing her hand on Gúthwyn's forehead.

Gúthwyn tried to ask for something to eat, but the horrible dryness in her throat had returned, and all she could manage was a hoarse plea. "Food?"

Abaudia gasped. "I had forgotten!" Her wrinkled hands clasped Gúthwyn's smooth one. "Lebryn!"

At once the boy rose to his feet, heading for the door. As he did so, Feride held up the water bucket. "Shall we give her some water?"

"Of course, thank you," Abaudia answered, taking the container from her and raising it to Gúthwyn's lips. Gúthwyn did not need to be told to drink this time; she merely opened her mouth to let in the cool, flowing liquid.

"Is there anything I may do?" As Abaudia pulled away the water bucket, Gúthwyn looked up and saw Cobryn standing beside her bed, leaning heavily on his crutch and holding his right foot above the ground.

"Cobryn, you must rest!" Feride exclaimed, leaping to her feet and upsetting a small pile of rags. Cobryn grimaced, but he sat back down upon his cot. Feride set about helping him back into a comfortable position; her every touch, Gúthwyn noticed, was extremely tender and hesitant.

"Thank you, Cobryn, but I am fine," she said to him when Feride had finished, smiling weakly. He inclined his head towards her, the next instant wincing as his torso shifted.

At that moment, the door opened and Lebryn entered the dwelling. He had clearly run most, if not all, of the distance: he was still catching his breath as he handed the parcel to Abaudia.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said, her stomach growling. The pounding in her head was beginning to ease. Lebryn simply nodded, then returned to his cot.

Abaudia opened the parcel, revealing a loaf of bread. She broke off a third of it and split that in half, handing one piece to Gúthwyn.

"No," Gúthwyn protested, trying to give it back, "that is too much." She did not want the others to suffer smaller rations because of her, though she was starving.

"You have missed many meals," Abaudia responded firmly, refusing to accept the bread. "I only wish I could give you more."

"Really, it is unnecessary," Gúthwyn persisted, attempting to ignore her ravenous stomach. She was suddenly feeling light-headed again.

"I will not argue with you," Abaudia spoke, her tone indicating that the conversation was over. Gúthwyn had no choice but to eat the bread.

However, when she had crammed the sustenance into her mouth, she was glad that Abaudia had insisted upon it. The taste of food was so wonderful to her that it was difficult to abstain from grabbing the rest of the bread. Instantly, she felt her senses clearing, and the painful twinges in her belly were eased.

As she chewed, Gúthwyn saw Abaudia pressing the other large piece into Cobryn's hands. Cobryn accepted it with far less persuasion than the daughter of Éomund had needed. He smiled as he thanked the elder woman, the next moment tearing eagerly into his slice. Though his physical injuries were far worse than hers, Gúthwyn was ashamed to see that he was dealing with it far better than she. Where had her pride, her independence, her strength, gone?

_You lost them the moment you became a slave._ The nasty thought came to her, causing her cheeks to flush. The raw hunger returned to her stomach again, along with the painful dryness in her throat. Chalibeth's face swam before her eyes. More than anything, she wished to sleep. The world was tilting, spinning away…

Slumping back on her pillow, she watched with half-closed eyes as Abaudia bustled over to her cot.

"Gúthwyn?"

"Tired…" Gúthwyn mumbled, a pleasant warm feeling closing over her. Soon the blissful oblivion of unconsciousness would be hers… She would no longer have to look at Chalibeth's still form…

"Drink some water first."

A faint annoyance crossed through her mind. She did not want anything, except for a long rest.

"Not thirsty."

"Drink it." With that, something was pressed into her mouth, and a torrent of cool water came gushing forth. Gúthwyn allowed herself to swallow it. Soon, Abaudia had pulled the water container away. With a heavy sigh, Gúthwyn curled herself into a ball. She felt the cares of her day falling away, a shroud of sleep instead wrapping itself around her body.

"Sleep…" Abaudia whispered softly. The last thing Gúthwyn saw before she left the world of the living was a tiny flickering flame, its tongue far in the distance outside the window.


	18. Dream of Darkness

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Seventeen:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters—sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing. The last chapter was shorter than usual, and for that I am sure you are grateful. 

**Chapter Seventeen**

_She was back._

_All around her, the familiar features of the Warg stables pressed in on her, mocking her, bringing to light all of her fears. Thousands of glittering eyes were focused upon her, narrowed hungrily and watchfully. A terrible dread coming over her, Gúthwyn revolved slowly on the spot, searching for the reason why she was here. Someone… it was someone…_

"_Gúthwyn."_

_The word was spoken harshly; yet when she whirled around frantically, her eyes fell upon Théoden. His burnished armor flashed in the torchlight, and he carried his sword in his hand._

_A wonderful, disbelieving joy seized Gúthwyn's heart. Her uncle was here—she was going home, back to Rohan!_

"_My lord!" she cried in delight, sinking to her knees, nearly weeping for her happiness. "Théoden, uncle, I never thought—"_

"_Silence!" he barked. Startled, Gúthwyn broke off her speech. Only when she had done an ill deed had Théoden taken that tone with her._

"_Uncle?" she questioned cautiously. Théoden's eyes flashed, and he strode forwards, until but two yards separated them. In her mind he seemed to grow taller, while she in turn shrunk._

"'_Uncle,'" he spat in distaste, a hideous gleam entering his eyes. "How dare you think to call yourself a relation of mine, a descendant of the House of Eorl, when you have shamed us all?"_

_Gúthwyn stared at him, aghast. To hear such loathsome words pouring from her uncle's mouth stabbed at her heart like a thousand knives. "My lord…" she began, trembling._

"_Be quiet, you fool!" Théoden screamed. And suddenly he was changing; his armor faded away, replaced by white robes… His face was aging… Eyes that had once been blue were now darkening into an impenetrable black…_

_Saruman the White now stood before her, a staff in hand, his foul spirit filling the entire cavern; his words were horrendous to behold and cruel to the ear._

"_Do you think you have suffered?" he shrieked at her, sounding like a madman. "This is only the beginning!" Thrusting his head back, he cackled, the sound so malicious that Gúthwyn covered her ears._

_The laughing only grew louder. "So, you cannot bear even my voice? You are weaker than I presumed!" Saruman exclaimed gleefully. "Even your friend was braver…"_

_Gúthwyn felt a rush of fury overcoming her. He would not… he could not…_

"_What was her name?" the wizard continued, purposely mocking Gúthwyn, watching her with derisive eyes that still held that wild flame. "I suppose it is no matter, now that she is dead… now that her flesh has fed my creations…"_

_Gúthwyn snapped. With a roar of utmost hatred and revulsion, she leaped up, fully intending to run to the wizard and strangle him to death._

_But something was wrong. She had not moved an inch from where she was kneeling. Saruman's eyes, filled to the brim with mirth, were gazing at her. With renewed strength, Gúthwyn lunged upwards. And yet not an inch had she traveled. Panicking, she wiggled her finger. Nothing happened. With the exception of her head, her entire body was frozen, locked in place and at the mercy of Saruman._

"_This is how it was for her at the end…" the White Wizard hissed menacingly, stepping closer to Gúthwyn. A dread filled her, though she could not act upon it. She was forced to watch helplessly as Saruman neared her._

_The gap between them had been closed to a yard when, with a wave of his staff, the wizard caused something heavy to fall on the floor before her—at the same instant, he disappeared. Blinking in shock, Gúthwyn looked down at what Saruman had conjured. In an instant, she was howling in horror, her shrieks bouncing off the walls and multiplying, until the whole cavern echoed of them._

"_ÉOWYN!" Her sister's corpse lay on the dirt floor, completely unharmed except for her mouth: a violent surge of blood was pouring out of it, streaking her pale face with bright red. Éowyn lay still, and Gúthwyn's stomach twisted with the knowledge that she was dead. Her screams grew louder. "NO!" She felt as though she was going to be sick._

_A sudden disturbance in the shadows caught her attention. There was a rustling sound, as of heavy robes moving around; then a man appeared._

"_You!" Gúthwyn gasped in terror, looking into the face of Gríma Wormtongue. The man took no notice of her, for his eyes were riveted on Éowyn. A sharp foreboding filled her._

"_Éowyn!" she begged, tears streaming down her face as she stared at her sister. "Éowyn, wake up!" But her pleas were to no avail. Gríma began walking towards Éowyn, his eyes filled with an emotion that Gúthwyn could not decipher at first. It frightened her beyond telling._

"_ÉOWYN!" she yelled louder. She had to bring her sister back, or Wormtongue would take her…_

_Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as she glanced back at the Serpent. She now knew that gleam in his eyes: Lust, and hunger. A wild thought seized her, that Wormtongue would commit the worst sin possible…_

"_Stay away from her!" Gúthwyn bellowed at Gríma. But for all he paid attention to her, she may as well have been the wall. Step by step he advanced upon Éowyn, his luminous eyes growing even brighter with desire. Utmost terror gripped Gúthwyn's heart; the man was but five feet away from her sister. She needed to act._

_With all of the energy and strength she had inside of her, she screamed louder than she ever had in her life. "ÉOWYN! HE IS COMING!"_

_The next instant, a dark shadow fell upon her. Wormtongue stood over her sister's body, and then he was kneeling down beside her. Gúthwyn's voice was stopped—and then Gríma looked directly into her eyes._

"_She is mine," he whispered triumphantly. A wave of despair crashed upon Gúthwyn; she could not speak for horror._

_At that moment, Éowyn's eyelids fluttered. But then the Serpent bent his body over hers, and his mouth came down to her lips. Gúthwyn saw his tongue flicking like that of a snake's._

"_STOP!" she shrieked. But it was useless. Gríma Wormtongue covered Éowyn with a searing kiss, drinking the blood out of her mouth with a cruel fervor. Gúthwyn felt the world swaying beneath her knees. She closed her eyes, unable to watch. The next second, however, she opened them again—only to find that both the Serpent and Éowyn had disappeared._

_A heavy silence fell upon the Warg stables. She could hear the individual growls of the Wargs, could hear their breath puffing in the air, which was becoming chill. "Éowyn?" she asked aloud, sweating in distress. "Éowyn, where have you gone?"_

You are wasting time. Find her, now! _The thought came to her mind, clear as the summer sky. She knew what she had to do. She would find Éowyn, and then make the Serpent pay for all of his wrongs._

_The enchantment, however, had not been removed from her body. Frowning, Gúthwyn gathered her strength, preparing to take a leap that would shatter it—for otherwise, she would never save Éowyn. Her face contorted in concentration, Gúthwyn took a deep breath and leaped with all her might._

_Instantly, she found herself flying through the air; she landed in a crumpled heap upon the ground, several feet away from where she had been held prisoner. Gasping for breath, and feeling the birth of several bruises, she slowly got to her knees. A love for Éowyn pushed her on, and soon she had stood. But where now was she to look?_

You know where, _her mind told her sternly. Gúthwyn flinched. Unbidden, the blackness crept upon her again, penetrated only by two points of light…_

"_NO!" she cried, wresting herself from the memory. As if her very thought had conjured it, now the cage of shadows was before her, its door hanging off of its hinges. Éowyn was in this spot, and in order to rescue her, Gúthwyn would have to go back into the very place where she had been driven mad._

_Step by step she forced herself to move forwards. With each movement she felt a wild trembling seize her. But she knew she had to keep walking forward, knew she had to press on into the darkness. As she neared it, the shadows seemed to become deeper. How was she ever to find someone in that gloom? How was she to avoid the ravenous Wargs?_

_Her feet came to a stop in front of the open door. For a moment, courage utterly failed her. She stood there, her head bowed, in mourning for Éowyn. Surely, she was dead. When Gúthwyn had seen her eyelids flutter, it was merely a trick of the candlelight. There was no use in going into the cage, where only death—or worse—awaited her._

_And just then, a frail moaning echoed from within the cage. With a start, Gúthwyn looked up, at once stiffening her resolve. She would not turn back now, she thought, not while there was the slightest chance that Éowyn still lived. No, it was into the Warg cage. Taking a deep breath, she lifted her right foot and set it, quavering, beyond the door. The rest of her body followed, and when the blackness engulfed her she knew she was in._

I need a torch,_ she realized. Otherwise I will never find anything._

_At that moment, there was a sudden blast of light, and Gúthwyn had to shield her eyes against it. When she at last lowered her hand, she saw that a series of torches along the enclosure walls had been ignited by an unseen force, bringing to light the monstrous scene before her._

_Gúthwyn cringed at the sight of the mutilated corpses, and unbidden the memory of maggot-ridden eyes swum up to the surface of her mind. She forced it back down, but not before it had instilled a spike of terror within her. Now looking around at the Wargs, lying upon the ground next to their victims, she felt as though the contents of her recent meal were going to come rushing up. Surely any minute now they would jump on her, tearing her flesh to bits and pieces…_

_But while Gúthwyn stood there, rooted in terror and an easy target, not one of them made any effort to move towards her. Completely nonplussed, she stared at them, and saw that they were content: all of them seemed to be chewing something, but Gúthwyn could not tell what it was._

_Almost unconsciously she glanced at the cage, and what she saw froze her heart. The largest Warg she had ever seen had planted itself right before it. Instantly, Gúthwyn knew that this was the one that had maintained a ceaseless watch on her. Now, however, the Warg was chewing languidly, observing Gúthwyn with eyes that seemed almost triumphant. Dangling from her teeth was a lock of golden hair._

_The world spun. "No…" Gúthwyn breathed, staring transfixed at the remainder of Éowyn. "NO! ÉOWYN!" A great darkness came over her mind and she stepped backwards, tripping over something that lay on the ground and crashing in a heap next to it. Her face wet with tears, she glanced at it._

_It was the young girl, her limbs and face destroyed, her eyes crawling with maggots. Gúthwyn shuddered, torn between two urges: to kill the Warg that so insolently chewed on Éowyn's flesh, and to take a closer look at the eyes. But the latter prospect drew her in, until she was quite powerless to do aught but lean towards the girl's face._

_She blinked in shock. The child's eyes were closed, and the maggots were nowhere in sight. Still drawn by that irresistible pull, Gúthwyn looked harder. There was something about this girl that was off, she thought, drawing nearer to her face, bending down so that their noses were just a foot apart._

_Suddenly, the girl's eyes flared open; Chalibeth's blue-colored ones gazed up at her, slowly filling with countless maggots…_

_Screaming in horror, Gúthwyn leapt backwards, just as Chalibeth's face burst into flame. Gúthwyn shrieked even louder, squeezing her eyes shut, and falling, falling, falling…_

"Gúthwyn!"

Abruptly Gúthwyn's eyes flew open, and she became aware of the high-pitched screams that filled the air. With an unnatural speed for one whom has just awoken she sat up, nearly knocking into the person before her. When she saw who it was, she lunged forward and clasped her hands about their throat.

"WHERE IS SHE?" Gúthwyn yelled at Gríma Wormtongue, pressing her fingers deeper into his neck. "What have you done with her?"

Wormtongue choked, his eyes wide in panic. "I know not—"

"I SAW YOU!" she roared at him, squeezing harder.

"Gúthwyn!" the Serpent said, attempting to pull away from her grip. But Gúthwyn in a rage dug her nails into his flesh, and he stopped with a gasp of pain.

"What have you done to Éowyn?" she cried, shaking him as hard as she might.

"I do not know whom you speak of!" Wormtongue insisted, his eyes narrowing in confusion.

"LIAR!" Gúthwyn shrieked, bringing him closer to her. With a gaze that breathed fire she met his wide-open eyes, their brown surface gleaming with alarm.

But wait… Gríma Wormtongue had blue eyes, not brown…

"Gúthwyn?" he spoke.

"_Cobryn_?" Gúthwyn gasped with astonishment, withdrawing her hands at once and sinking back onto her cot. Cobryn stepped back, massaging his throat and staring at her with a worried expression.

"What happened?" he questioned.

Gúthwyn could not make sense of what was going on. "Where did he go?" she asked, looking around the dwelling of the Mûlnothrim in utter confusion.

"Who?"

"Wormtongue!" Gúthwyn exclaimed. "He was here, I grabbed his throat!"

"No, that was me," Cobryn responded, lifting his hands to show the formation of two bruises on his neck.

Gúthwyn buried her face in her hands. What was wrong with her? She had seen the Serpent, she knew that. But how had Cobryn appeared? "What is happening?" she managed at last.

"You were crying out in your sleep," Cobryn answered, limping towards her so he could sit on her bed. "I went over to wake you up and you grabbed me, asking where Éowyn was."

"But…" Gúthwyn began, looking up at him in bewilderment. She had _seen_ Wormtongue, he had _been_ in this very room! "It was Gríma, I know it! I saw him with my own eyes!"

Cobryn stared at her, a mixture of pity and alarm upon his face. "Gúthwyn, you and I have been the only ones here since the others left well over two hours ago. You must have been hallucinating."

Gúthwyn groaned, leaning back against the wall. She felt a strange desire to cry—why was she seeing things?

"Where you having a nightmare?" Cobryn inquired softly.

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied, determinedly avoiding his sympathetic gaze.

"Who is Éowyn?"

Gúthwyn whipped her head around to glare at him, but his eyes held no malicious purpose. "She was my sister," she told him after a moment.

Cobryn lowered his gaze. "I am sorry," he muttered. "I should not have asked."

"You did not know." Gúthwyn's voice sounded hollow and empty even to her own ears. Éowyn had died four years ago—why were her dreams bringing that up now?

"May I question you on one other matter?" Cobryn's tone was apologetic.

"You may," Gúthwyn replied guardedly. What else had she given away in her sleep?"

"Are you indeed the niece of Théoden, King of Rohan?"

Gúthwyn closed her eyes. _Of all the questions, Cobryn…_ her mind thought. How long had she been trying to conceal her family's importance?

"Gúthwyn?"

"I am," she confirmed, glancing at Cobryn to see his reaction. His eyes widened.

"Do others know of this?" he wondered.

"Saruman does. He taunted me when… when Chalibeth… when she…" Gúthwyn could not bring herself to say "died." She found her voice trembling.

Cobryn's eyes had clouded at the mention of Chalibeth, but he appeared to be puzzling over something.

"What is it?" Gúthwyn questioned roughly, blinking back the tears that had threatened to spill over.

"Saruman knows that you are kin to Théoden, and yet does not press him for ransom?" he mused interestedly. "Surely he would use this advantage… Think of what the king could be forced to do, if it was known that his niece was held in Isengard."

Gúthwyn shivered at the thought, but she agreed with Cobryn. It was odd, now that she noticed it—_why_ had no money price been placed on her head? "I cannot answer this riddle," she said, curling her knees in to her chest and peering at Cobryn over them. "I do not understand it."

"Nor do I," Cobryn answered, running his fingers through his hair and looking bewildered. "There is nothing we can do about it, however…"

Gúthwyn sighed. Glancing out the window idly, she was surprised to see that the sun had ridden above its view. "What time is it?" she wanted to know.

"Almost noon." Suddenly Cobryn stiffened and turned his head toward the door.

"What is it?"

"Listen." Then Gúthwyn heard it: heavy footsteps that were growing louder and louder.

"Are the others returning?" she inquired.

"No…" Cobryn's voice had dropped to a whisper. "It is almost twelve, true, but there is only one pair of feet."

They had no time to ponder upon this mystery before the footsteps were right outside of the door; it was thrust open, revealing one of the Uruk-hai.

Gúthwyn gasped, her hand flying to her mouth in terror. The servant of Saruman fixed his eyes on her, most of his face obscured by thick metal armor. "You'll come with us," he grunted, pointing at her with a scarred finger, "and you'll be quiet about it."

Gúthwyn's response was to back against the wall, holding her hands in front of her in defense. With a snarl, the Uruk lunged at her, thrusting aside Cobryn and grabbing hold of her right arm. Gúthwyn attempted to punch the creature with her left fist, but it was snatched as well. Soon, she found herself pinned against the Uruk, trapped by his sharp claws and vise-like grip. His putrid breath fell on her face, nearly causing her to gag.

Roughly, she was twisted around until she was facing Cobryn. Her friend had fallen to the floor and was attempting to get up, but his body refused to let him. Enraged, Gúthwyn began kicking and twisting against the Uruk who held her. "Let me go!" she cried, trying to pry the creature's arms off of her.

Cobryn shook his head. "Gúthwyn, no!" he exclaimed, his voice hoarse. "Give them no trouble! It will only be worse for you if you do!"

The Uruk jeered. "Listen to the slave boy," he cackled, his grip on Gúthwyn's arms now painful. "Orders are for me to take you to Saruman, and you're not to be late on my watch."


	19. Happy Birthday II

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Eighteen:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters—sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing.

**Chapter Eighteen**

Gúthwyn felt her body suddenly go limp. She was being brought to _Saruman_? As the Uruk began dragging her away, her eyes met Cobryn's. The young man was just as astonished as she was. _What could the White Wizard possibly want from me?_ she wondered, a panic beginning to form in her stomach as the Uruk slammed the door to the Mûlnothrim's dwelling behind them. _Will he send me into the cage again?_

As soon as she thought that, she felt as though she was going to be sick. There was no worse punishment than that place, that horrible place where eyes stared at you out of the darkness… Where the voices came and turned you mad… Had the Uruk not been holding her, Gúthwyn would have fallen to the ground in terror.

The Uruk kept striding forwards, until twenty feet and then thirty had fallen by. At nearly fifteen yards Gúthwyn became aware of someone calling her name. Doing her best to move against the iron grip of the Uruk, she looked up. Just a short distance away from her were the members of her clan, returning to their abode at the end of a wearisome shift.

Onyveth it was who had hailed her, the young girl's voice edged with hysteria and fear. She clutched at Feride's hand as the Uruk drew closer, staring at Gúthwyn in his arms with terrified eyes. Feride blanched and trembled, unable to look at her fellow slave. Beside them, Abaudia gazed at the daughter of Théoden with troubled eyes, as if certain that they would never meet again. Gwollyn and Regwyn simply gaped at her, incapable of any other action. But Lebryn lifted his hand and waved. As the Uruk marched her past the Mûlnothrim, Gúthwyn stared at the boy. Yet his face was pale and his eyes held no laughter.

And then the moment was over and the Uruk had passed them, heeding not their fear and distress. In truth, their reactions made Gúthwyn's situation sound more hopeless, and she now could not shed the nauseous feeling within her belly. It stayed with her all the way to Orthanc, and as the black tower loomed above her it increased tenfold. Her throat was dry, and yet her palms were sweating feverishly. Within minutes, she would be face-to-face with Saruman the White.

The sentinels at the top of the stairs watched amusedly as the Uruk approached with a terrified young woman in his grasp. "Is she good sport?" one of them jeered at the creature, leering at her with a lopsided grin, his eyes not once traveling up to her face. Gúthwyn felt as though she were wearing no clothes, so open and piercing was his gaze. And she had no doubt, as she glanced into his eyes, that he wished that were so.

The Uruk stopped and glared at the guard as a wave of humiliation passed over Gúthwyn. "I have my orders," he growled, stopping the man's laughter. "Let us pass."

Silently the wardens opened the doors, and Gúthwyn's embarrassment was replaced with a great dread. Never before, even when she first beheld the place, had the entrance hall seemed more foreboding and oppressing than now. She felt stifled by the darkness of it all, and for a moment was reminded of the cage. She quailed, utterly horror-stricken, as the Uruk mounted the stairs and began his ascent.

Going up the staircase was a difficult process, for the Uruk cared not about her comfort, and her feet hit the steps frequently. His clutch on her arms was so painful that her teeth were gritted against it, and it was hard to keep from moaning. The butterflies inside her stomach did not help matters, as they constantly surged within her, threatening to bring the contents of her belly splashing onto the jet-black surfaces of Orthanc.

To keep her mind off of her discomfort and terror, Gúthwyn attempted to count the number of steps that the Uruk placed his foot on, but this proved to be futile. She could not shake the idea that her doom lay at the top of these stairs, and that her life was in danger.

_Please let me escape without harm, _she prayed, closing her eyes and feeling a bead of sweat trickling down her forehead. _Let this not be my last day on earth._

Perhaps, if she had known what was in her future, she would have wished otherwise. But she could predict nothing, and wishing for her own safety kept her from concentrating too hard on the sickness felt inside. Swiftly were the stairs passing by, and all too soon they had reached the fourth floor. For a moment Gúthwyn actually felt the bile rising in her throat, but she forced it down with great difficulty. Now was not the time to be showing weakness.

To her left, the doors to Saruman's study loomed like a great and threatening pair of monsters, rearing their heads to stare her menacingly in the eye. Gúthwyn gulped, her skin turning a pale pasty color. Undeterred, the Uruk went towards it, passing by the mysterious covered table in order to bring his catch to his master. The cloth, Gúthwyn noticed, was disturbed, as though it had been removed and then placed back on recently.

It seemed to take the Uruk only a second before both of them were just outside the jet-black doors. As Gúthwyn's breathing became fast and irregular, the Uruk raised his black hand and knocked thrice upon the ebony surface. A cold voice that made the hairs on the back of Gúthwyn's neck stand up answered: "Come in."

Silently the doors swung open and the Uruk unceremoniously marched Gúthwyn in. She had a brief glimpse of Saruman sitting behind his desk before her legs were kicked out from under her. With a wince of pain she fell to her knees—her neck was then forcefully tilted towards the ground, placing her in the submissive position known to all slaves. Gúthwyn's face burned with shame and fury, but against the Uruk's tight hold she was powerless.

"That is enough," Saruman's distant-sounding voice declared. Gúthwyn was jerked by her hair into a standing position by the Uruk. Her scalp stinging furiously, the daughter of Éomund glared at the White Wizard, forgetting for a moment her place.

"I could have gotten up myself," she spat.

Saruman's eyes flashed dangerously. "I see your time in the cage has taught you nothing, foolish child."

For but a second, Gúthwyn felt her body trembling; the wizard noticed as well, for a cold gleam entered his eyes. "Perhaps we need a reminder of what happens to ill-mannered slaves?"

The Uruk behind her hissed. Gúthwyn willed herself to show no reaction, but could not suppress the recurring urge to vomit.

Saruman regarded her for a moment, simply staring at her with his black and forbidding eyes. Gúthwyn held the gaze, knowing not what she was getting herself into, nor the powers of the Maiar of old. For Saruman was well skilled in the art of manipulating the mind—peruse its pages like a book he could not, yet very few were able to keep secrets from him; oft he learned more from a person than they said out loud.

All Gúthwyn was aware of was that her head began to burn as though it were on fire; her eyes watered, and yet Saruman had not yet moved an inch. As the pain in her head grew more and more unbearable, she came under the impression that _he_ was the one causing it. The notion came to her mind that this was a test of sorts, to see how long she could endure the pain.

Even as she resolved to not back down before Saruman the White, the agony tripled; with a gasp, she wrenched her eyes away and pressed her hand to her forehead. Saruman laughed, the horrible notes grating on her ears.

"Leave us," Saruman told the Uruk. Letting go of Gúthwyn, the creature grunted and exited from the room. Gúthwyn glanced around nervously, the pain in her head still lingering to bother her. She would not have put herself alone into a room with the wizard, even if it meant having a whole host of Uruk-hai for company.

"Come here," Saruman commanded. Gúthwyn looked back at him, and saw he pointed to the area right before his desk. There was no chair.

Gúthwyn walked towards the wizard cautiously, stopping a yard away from where his pale hand had directed. With every step of the way Saruman's eyes bored into her. "Why have you called me here?" she questioned, folding her arms across her chest.

"Speak when you are spoken to, slave," Saruman snapped at her. "It is beyond my wisdom to determine how you seemed to have missed this precious lesson… or were you doted upon by Théoden?"

The insult rang in Gúthwyn's ears like a shrill bell. "My uncle—" she began, curling her fists into tight balls, her eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Silence!" Saruman barked. "No longer will you get away with talking back to your superiors. It is time you learned what it truly means to be a slave."

Gúthwyn fell silent, watching the wizard apprehensively. A faint, evil smile was playing across his features, and she did not like the look of it. What was he about to do to her?

As she wondered all this, Saruman leaned forward, his eyes now alight with something—but what? "Your punishment for ruining my cavalry was too light, I deem. And had it been under my control, had fate not intervened, your bones would have joined those of countless others who defied me."

_Fate?_ Gúthwyn mused curiously, glancing at Saruman in confusion.

"Fate, yes," Saruman said, as if he guessed her very thoughts. "And it seems that yours is no longer in my hands."

"My fate was never in your hands," Gúthwyn snapped contemptuously. Rather than humble her before the master of Isengard, the cage had done just the opposite—such hatred had she for Saruman that she felt there was no equal. How very wrong she was.

"You idiot girl," the wizard spoke coldly. "You will not long survive in your new home, if you retain manners such as those."

Gúthwyn raised her eyebrows. _A new home?_ "What do you mean by that?" she asked, noting with unease that Saruman had the look of one who is coming to the ending of a jest.

"You never wondered why you were released early from the cage?"

Gúthwyn frowned. Before she could stop herself, she said, "I was?"

"You were not told?" Saruman's eyes gleamed.

"Do not speak in riddles," Gúthwyn said, glaring at him.

She knew instantly that she had gone too far. Very slowly, the White Wizard raised himself up from his high-backed chair. With footsteps that echoed heavily throughout the room, despite it being cluttered with innumerable objects, Saruman moved around his desk and came towards her. Venom was in his eyes, and when he reached Gúthwyn he struck her in the face unexpectedly, so that she went sprawling to the ground before his feet.

"Insolent though you are, you will never utter a command to me," Saruman hissed. "For I am your master, and you are my slave." With that, he gave Gúthwyn a sharp kick to her side.

Gúthwyn gasped as the breath momentarily went out of her. She felt a sharp pain, approaching the state of a dreadful agony, on her left cheek. For several seconds, she could not understand why; surely Saruman had not hit her that hard? She glanced up, expecting to see him standing above her, and was surprised to see that he was once again sitting behind his desk, watching her with undisguised amusement.

Puzzled, Gúthwyn brought her hand up to her cheek. When it touched the folds of rippled and mangled flesh, she remembered. Remembered everything about that horrible day, the day that Chalibeth had perished, the day that she had been given to the Wargs…

"You are well on your way to becoming one of my lesser servants, the Orcs, if that was your intent," Saruman informed her, his eyes fixed on the left side of her face.

Gúthwyn's head snapped up. None of the Mûlnothrim had said anything to her concerning the Warg bite—now that she thought of it, surely that was unusual? Would Abaudia, at the least, not have wanted to inform her about the extent of this injury?

"I do not understand," she said at last.

Saruman laughed. "So, once again," he cackled, "Gúthwyn the foolish knows less of herself than the others around her!" With that, he cast something towards her. In the instant before it broke in two against the unyielding floor, Gúthwyn saw that it was a mirror. It had been over four years since she last looked into one.

Her hands trembling, she picked up the largest shard and held it before her face. A second later, the glass fell from her hand, shattering into a hundred pieces and cutting her limbs in the process. Gúthwyn took no notice of these small hurts, for the face she had seen in the mirror was more of a monster's than a person's—the entire left side was so mutilated that it was completely unrecognizable as any feature on the body of a human. A pale green color was the very center of the wound, overlying black blood that had dried on it. Her face, though it had never been stunningly beautiful in the first place, was now utterly terrifying to gaze upon.

Saruman surveyed her reaction with satisfaction. "It is clear that they thought the truth more than little Gúthwyn could bear," he said.

Gúthwyn stared at him, hearing the hollow ringing sound that his words created within her ears. "Was this the entire reason you brought me here?" she whispered. "So I could see what I have become?"

"I think not," Saruman responded. "For someone so gifted… or shall we say, lucky… with a sword, you are remarkably ignorant. Stand up."

Gúthwyn did so, stepping over the mirror pieces to come to a clean space of floor.

"It seems," Saruman began, "that your antics have caught the attention of others than myself."

Gúthwyn was puzzled. Who could have possibly observed her actions other than the servants of the wizard? "What does that mean?" she questioned. But she was not prepared for the answer that was given.

"I am releasing you tomorrow."

Gúthwyn's mouth fell open in shock. Her mind was filled with a numb buzzing. Had he just… Had he just freed her? With weak knees, she took in several deep breaths. "Release me?" she choked out.

So astounded was she that she did not notice the sly smile turning up the corners of Saruman's mouth. "For at that time, you will be escorted by a troop of Uruk-hai, who will take you to Mordor," he continued.

The words slammed into Gúthwyn like an iron fist, and she struggled to make sense of them. "To… Mordor?" she whispered at last, staring in horror at Saruman.

"To Mordor," Saruman repeated, his eyes alight with glee.

Unwittingly Gúthwyn took a step back from him. Surely this was not possible. She was dreaming. She would wake up in a minute and realize that she was safe in the Mûlnothrim dwelling. She could not go to Mordor. It was unthinkable.

"At three hours from noon you will depart," Saruman said, his voice sounding as though it were from a distant room. "The Uruks will punish you if you misbehave, so it would be wise for you to learn the arts of restraint and decorum, in which you are woefully inadequate."

Gúthwyn barely heard him. _Mordor Mordor Mordor_ ran through her mind like wildfire, scorching everything in its path and unable to be doused. Saruman was telling her that she was going to Mordor. Tomorrow. She was going to Mordor tomorrow. Her eyes darted this way and that, searching for an escape. There was none. Instead they landed on a spare piece of paper, upon which the date was neatly inscribed: the thirteenth of June.

_It is my birthday,_ she realized. _It is my birthday and I am going to Mordor._

"It is your task to keep up with my creatures. A fast pace is necessary in order to reach the Black Land in three weeks." Dimly she recognized Saruman's voice. She could hear every word he was saying, and yet understood none of them. She was going to Mordor.

"You are dismissed."

When she at last recognized the command, she swayed for a moment, before turning around and stumbling towards the doors. Walking was difficult. How she made it out of Saruman's study she knew not, but then she had the stairs to descend. Gúthwyn moved towards them in a daze. She was going to Mordor. She had heard stories—every slave had—stories of what happened to those who went in. They never came out. Everyone knew that. And she was going there.

And then she was falling down the stairs, having tripped down the first step. She barely noticed, nor felt the hard walls that she was bumping against. She landed with a crash on the third floor, dully tasting the coppery tang of blood on her lips. Blood. She was going to Mordor and she would bleed for the rest of her life. _Mordor Mordor Mordor._

Gúthwyn picked herself up. Now she was clutching at the walls for support. She went down, down to the entrance hall of Orthanc, where the assembled men stared at her as she lurched past them in a daze. Not one of them said a word as she staggered down the stares, shielding her eyes against the blinding light. _It hurts and I am going to Mordor._ Mordor. There was no turning back.

Somehow managing to totter down the rest of the stairs without collapsing, she turned to her left and stopped. The sun was burning her, just like the arid, barren land of Mordor would. She wanted to be out of it, yet she could not walk the half-mile back to the Mûlnothrim dwelling. Just a few feet away there was a shady corner between the stairs and the eastern wall of Orthanc. It looked so inviting, and without a moment's hesitation she stumbled over to it and collapsed in a heap. She was going to Mordor.

And then for a time all thoughts left her, and her mind closed itself off from the rest of her body. She felt the warm breeze that fleetingly caressed her arms before disappearing, the prickly mixture of sand and dirt underneath her; she heard the clank of machines and the harsh grunts of Orcs and Uruks alike. Isengard remained unchanged, even though Gúthwyn felt as if her entire world had shattered.

At length, she began to think more rationally about what lay before her. She was going to Mordor. How long had Saruman said the journey would take? Three weeks, yes, that was it. A three-week journey on foot with a troop of the Uruk-hai, who had permission to punish her whenever they felt it necessary. Gúthwyn felt herself growing pale at the thought. All this, before she ever set foot in the Black Land.

Perhaps, if she was lucky, the Uruks would be overzealous in disciplining her, and she would die before ever having to submit herself to a hopeless life in the arid realm of the Dark Lord. But no sooner had this idea crossed her mind than she dismissed it. Dying was an easy way out; it was for the weak, not for a niece of the king. Gúthwyn had sunk low, but she was not so humbled that death was an option. She would meet her fate—if not with a straight back, she ruefully mused as she rubbed her hand over its abused flesh—but by looking it in the eye, just as Éowyn or Éomer would have done.

Gúthwyn felt a rush of sorrow, as ever she did when she saw them in her thoughts. On occasion, she had prayed that they had been saved from the hunter's poisoned arrows, but the next instant would berate herself for her foolish hopes. Éowyn and Éomer were dead; she had seen them fall with her own eyes. She herself had only survived by chance. Chance had helped her survive Isengard as well; now it had deserted her.

So preoccupied was Gúthwyn that she never heard the soft footfalls of the person who had been watching her since she staggered outside. They stood by her for a full minute without saying anything, then at last uttered, "Why are you so sad, young child?"

Gúthwyn jumped to her feet in surprise, and then gasped. Right before her was Gríma Wormtongue, whom she had last seen tormenting Éowyn in her dreams. "No!" she cried. A wild hatred rose in her for the man she now looked upon, with his pale eyes and greasy, unkempt hair. With a sudden lunge that caught the Serpent off-guard, she darted forward, slipped her hands about his throat, and squeezed.

Wormtongue gasped for breath, his eyes bulging as he attempted to loosen Gúthwyn's grip. But Gúthwyn would have none of it. "Stay away from her," she warned, forgetting that Gríma could not possibly have seen Éowyn, who was four years dead on this day. "Stay far away, or I will kill you." With that, she released him, and turning she started sprinting as she had never before back to her dwelling, shaken by what she had done.

As she departed, Gríma rubbed his throat, a chill coming upon him as he remembered the slave's words. "Stay away from her… Stay far away…" How had this slave known? Did it, in fact, know? Could it somehow see the hours on him in which he had trailed the footsteps of the lady, in which he had watched her every move? No, he decided at last; the child was raving. And yet he could not shake the feelings that said otherwise.

For her part, Gúthwyn was running like a frightened rabbit. The sight of the Serpent had sent her into a wild frenzy. _Mordor Mordor Mordor_ pushed away all other thoughts and she ran faster, fleeing from everything, only wanting to go somewhere safe. The yards flew by her as if they were nothing. _Mordor Mordor Mordor._

The home of the Mûlnothrim rapidly became larger, where once it had been a distant black speck. Gúthwyn dashed towards it, _Mordor Mordor Mordor_ all that was left in her mind. She was but two yards away when the door opened and there was Cobryn leaning on his crutch; he stopped short at the sight of her, sprinting towards him like one whom has gone mad.

Unable to stop herself in time, Gúthwyn crashed into him, knocking the crutch out of his hand. He stumbled backwards, but kept his footing. Gúthwyn could not, though before she fell onto the ground his strong hands grasped her arms and righted her.

"Gúthwyn, what happened? Are you alright?" he asked frantically. Gúthwyn gazed up at him and found that she could only say one word:

"Mordor."

She heard the other slaves, whom had leaped to their feet as soon as she had unexpectedly arrived, fall silent in fear.

"Mordor," she said again. Cobryn's eyes widened.

"What do you mean?" he probed, his grip on her tightening. At last finding the words to explain, Gúthwyn looked straight into his eyes.

"Saruman is sending me to Mordor tomorrow." And then she fainted.

As Gúthwyn collapsed in Cobryn's arms, the entire room was in an uproar.

"Has she gone mad?" Feride asked, her face pale as Cobryn gently carried the girl to an empty cot, wincing as his ribs were moved around. "Do you think… Do you think it is true?"

"No one has ever been sent to Mordor before," Lebryn said in a hushed voice.

"It cannot be true," Regwyn added.

"Impossible," Gwollyn continued, his brown eyes narrowing at the sight of Gúthwyn's slender body unconscious upon the bed.

"If it is not true…" Abaudia began, hastening over to Gúthwyn as quick as she might, "What was done to her to make her think so?"

Cobryn's face was grim as the elder woman stood beside him. "She was terrified," he commented softly. "I saw it in her eyes."

"She is moving!" Abaudia suddenly murmured. Bending down swiftly, she took Gúthwyn's hand. As the others began crowding in, she waved them off. "Gúthwyn!"

Out of the blackness surrounding her, Gúthwyn imagined that she heard someone calling her name. Where was she? With a moan she stirred, and felt something soft and wrinkled against her hand. She struggled to open her eyes, and was at last rewarded with a bleary, minimal vision. Two figures stood above her; thinking them to be unfriendly, she recoiled.

"Gúthwyn, it is us, Cobryn and Abaudia," a young man's voice spoke. Squinting, Gúthwyn at last saw his familiar brown hair and dark eyes. Her hand was in Abaudia's, for the woman was the other at her bedside.

With a jolt, she remembered fainting—and the reason for it. With a gasp, she flew upwards, coming to an upright position. "Mordor!" she cried out, suddenly feeling as though she were being suffocated.

Instantly, Cobryn's hands were on her shoulders. "Gúthwyn," he said steadily. "Be calm. Breathe."

Nodding, Gúthwyn tried to do as he bade, but her breath rattled in her chest as she drew it in, and she began trembling. "Saruman is sending me there!" she burst out. "Tomorrow!" She buried her face in her hands.

Roughly, Cobryn pulled them away so that they were looking straight at each other. His eyes blazed with an intense fire that she had never seen before, and it frightened her. "Are you sure of this?" he asked.

Gúthwyn stared at him, aghast. "You think I lie?" she managed, wrenching her arms from his grasp.

"Gúthwyn," Abaudia told her gently, leaning forward with concern in her eyes, "in all my time here, no one has ever been sent to that wretched land."

"He told me!" Gúthwyn cried out, aware that her voice was rising. "He said I was to leave tomorrow, with a troop of his Uruk-hai!"

Muttering filled the room. Gúthwyn saw the others looking at her with eyes that she knew well; they did not believe her at all. Instead, their faces expressed sympathy and pity. She realized with a start that why that was so.

"You all think I am mad!" she exclaimed suddenly, leaping off of the bed and standing on her feet. The glances that were exchanged at this only confirmed her opinion.

"Gúthwyn," Cobryn started, rising as well, holding out a hand to her.

"Leave me be!" Gúthwyn shrieked, knocking it away. She could not stand to be in this room any longer. She found herself suddenly recalling Saruman's mirror. "And if you cannot trust in my words, nor stand to look upon this hideous face"—she gestured with her hand—"the details of which you so kindly concealed from me, then I shall depart!" Ignoring the shocked looks on the others' faces, she leaped past Abaudia and ran for the doorway.


	20. Stargazing

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Nineteen:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters—sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing. The last chapter was shorter than usual, and for that I am sure you are grateful. 

**Chapter Nineteen**

"Gúthwyn, no!" she heard Cobryn shouting behind her. Lebryn made a half-hearted attempt to stand in her way; she pushed past him and flung the door open, rushing out of it as fast as possible. Hysteria propelled her forward, making her heedless of the danger she was exposing herself to.

She heard the door open behind her and ran swifter, not wishing to speak with anyone. The weight of the footsteps hitting the ground in pursuit made her feel certain that they belonged to Cobryn—how on earth was he moving? Chancing a glance back, Gúthwyn saw that his crutch had been abandoned at the wall. He was running with his hand pressed over his ribs, severe pain adorning his features. Amazed, Gúthwyn also noticed with alarm that, for all of his injuries, he was catching up.

Turning her head back so it was facing forwards, she tucked it down and sprinted harder than before, keeping to the path, caring not where she went as long as she got away from Cobryn. Gradually she heard his footsteps fading; as they became softer and softer she saw that she had almost reached Orthanc. She decided to return to the corner under the stairs; perhaps, if she sunk far enough into the shadows, he would run right past her and never notice.

Intent on reaching her goal, she pushed herself harder, glad that she could rest soon. Her breath was coming in sharp gasps as she came to the tower and made for the stairs. Another quick look behind her showed that Cobryn had been blocked by the black spire; relieved, she all but dove into the shade provided by the staircase. Panting, she crawled as far into the corner as was possible. She felt as though she would never be able to breathe properly again; the parched texture in her throat had reappeared.

Soon she heard Cobryn drawing closer. He too was having a difficult time drawing breath, and a twinge of guilt disturbed her stomach for causing him pain. But she pushed it out of her mind, for he had questioned her sanity. Folding her arms, she shrunk further into her corner, curling her knees up to her chest.

And there he was, running by—for a moment, she thought her plan had worked. Yet the next instant he caught sight of her, crouched in the shadows, and he skidded to a halt. His right leg twisted beneath him and he fell, crashing down to the ground with a dull _thump_. He did not rise, but rolled onto his back, clutching at his leg in silent agony.

"Cobryn!" Gúthwyn gasped, her heart skipping a beat. All of her anger towards him instantly dissipated, and she crawled towards where he lay. "Cobryn!"

Coming to him, she tried to prop him up into a sitting position, but he weighed much more than her and the task was difficult. "I am so sorry!" she moaned.

"Do not be," Cobryn told her, his breathing shallow. "It is not horrible." But at that second he shifted the tiniest bit, and he gritted his teeth against the pain. She saw that his hands had curled into fists; the knuckles were very white.

"It is, and you know it," Gúthwyn muttered, her face pale and her arms straining against the effort of holding him up. How could she have been so selfish? She should have stopped running the instant Cobryn began to follow. She had known that he was injured. None of this would have happened, had she thought of others than herself. "How much does it hurt?"

"Not terribly," Cobryn lied, his eyes clearly contradicting his mouth.

"Stop lying," Gúthwyn snapped, then wished that she had remained silent. In an effort to make her harsh words up somehow, she said, "I will get your crutch. Please, do not move."

"No!" Cobryn explained, grabbing at her wrist. "Why do you think I ran after you?"

Gúthwyn stopped, looking back at him. "What?" she asked.

To her astonishment, he burst out into laughter. "You mean to tell me," he began, his entire body shaking, causing him to wince as his leg was moved, "that after four years in this place, you still do not know that it is safe for no slave to be wandering around Isengard alone?"

Gúthwyn did not know what to say. She had never thought about this before—had never thought about why everyone always went outside with at least one other person.

"By the Valar," Cobryn continued, his laughter now turning into a cough, "I thought you were intelligent."

Gúthwyn knew that the barb was in jest, but it still stung at her. "Then what do you propose to do?" she questioned shortly.

"Help me up," Cobryn grunted, attempting to support himself on his hands.

"Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked, thinking little of this idea.

"Yes."

Gúthwyn sighed. Standing up, she moved behind him and put her hands below his arms. With a surge of power she pulled upwards. She heard Cobryn hiss slightly against the pressure, but at length he was able to place his good leg beneath him. When he was at last standing on one leg, Gúthwyn wrapped her left arm around her friend, allowing him to lean heavily on her. Immediately she wished, slender though he was, that he did not weigh so much.

As if he sensed her discomfort, Cobryn glanced down and asked if she was alright. Gúthwyn nodded. "Let us go," she said.

They began to move towards the dwelling, going exceedingly slow on account of Cobryn's injury. Orcs and Men alike stared at them as they hobbled down the path, occasionally jeering at them. One of the higher-ranked creatures cracked his whip as they passed.

"Cobryn," Gúthwyn said at last, remembering part of the reason why she had fled. "Why did you never tell me what I looked like? Why did you keep it from me?"

Cobryn looked at her, his eyes full of pity. "Abaudia thought it would be best to… to break the news gently," he told her. "It was infected, and she could not heal it. She said that… that it was very likely that your face would never return to a semblance of what it was."

Gúthwyn nodded, trying not to feel upset by this news. "Is it still infected?" she asked carefully, keeping her voice steady. At this point, they were halfway to the dwelling.

"Yes," Cobryn responded matter-of-factly. "Abaudia believes that it will not become deadly; rather, it will simply cause you a great deal of pain at times."

Once more Gúthwyn nodded, because there was nothing else she could do.

"How did you find out?" Cobryn wanted to know, glancing at her curiously.

"Saruman," Gúthwyn answered through clenched teeth. "He gave me a mirror."

Cobryn said nothing, but she felt him stiffen against her. They kept walking in an awkward silence.

"Gúthwyn," Cobryn muttered after a minute of this, for all her care still in agony. "I apologize for insulting you earlier; I certainly never intended to."

"But you still do not believe me," Gúthwyn ground out, feeling very acutely Cobryn's hip pressing into the side of her stomach.

Cobryn sighed. "I must admit that it is hard to—" he began, but then stopped short as a large shadow fell across his face. Gúthwyn glanced up, and with a jolt of her heart saw an Uruk looming before them. Her hold on Cobryn tightened.

"What is it?" she asked, aware that her entire face was covered in a thin film of grime.

"I wouldn't be so cocky if I were you," the creature growled, looking her up and down in distaste. "Word is they're sending you to Mordor tomorrow."

Gúthwyn did not answer. She did not want to think of it.

"You'll be with me and my lads," the Uruk continued, glaring at her menacingly. "I suggest that you learn to respect your superiors, or I'll allow the boys to have their fun with you."

At this Gúthwyn blanched, and for an instant Cobryn was the one supporting his fellow slave.

"But now, you're blocking my way," the Uruk said. "Now move!" And suddenly his hands flung out, and Gúthwyn was hit hard in the chest. She staggered into Cobryn, who tried to drag her from the creature's path. The Uruk made a hideous noise of amusement before resuming its fast strides, clearly on its way to Orthanc.

For a moment, Cobryn and Gúthwyn could not move.

"Cobryn!" The cry jerked them out of their reverie, and they turned to see Feride running towards them. She wasted no time, upon coming to a stop in front of them, before lecturing the older slave. "What on Arda were you thinking," she asked furiously, "running after her like that? And you!" she exclaimed suddenly, her eyes focusing on Gúthwyn. "Leaving the room in the first place! Do you know what could have befallen you? You seem determined to send us all to the grave tonight, first saying that you are to be sent to the Black Land, then—"

"Feride," Cobryn interrupted her. "Gúthwyn speaks the truth."

Never before had Gúthwyn been so grateful towards anyone for supporting her. Feride looked as though she had been slapped. "But you cannot be serious?" she gasped, her eyes shrouded in fear.

"Please," Gúthwyn said, "We need to get Cobryn back, he has hurt his leg more severely than before."

"Of course," Feride swiftly agreed, seeming relieved to put the other topic aside. Still shaking her head, she moved to the other side of Cobryn and supported him with her right arm. By doing so, she took a great deal of the pressure off of Gúthwyn, for which the daughter of Éomund was exceedingly grateful. She may have been strong, but the position was very awkward to endure for a long period of time.

At a word from Cobryn they set off again, only having about a furlong or two before they arrived at the Mûlnothrim dwelling. As they drew closer to the stone ring, the door opened and Lebryn poked his face out. Upon seeing them he called out, "Abaudia is going to murder you when you come back in!"

Gúthwyn groaned. "Can we leave it for later?" she snapped, not realizing how rude she sounded until the words were out of her mouth. Immediately, she wished she had not said them.

Feride, looking slightly affronted, said, "Well, you should not have left the room by yourself. It was very foolish of you—and look what has happened to Cobryn, because of it."

"That was my own fault, Feride," Cobryn interjected quickly, for Gúthwyn showed signs of wanting to slaughter the woman on the spot. "I was the foolish one."

Feride shook her head. "You are both too rash for your own good," she sighed. As she did so, they came within a yard of the door.

"I will open it," Gúthwyn said: Lebryn had already gone back inside. Ducking out from under Cobryn's arm, she pushed at the door and held it open for Cobryn and Feride to hobble inside.

When she herself entered, she saw that Abaudia had swooped down on Cobryn, ushering him back to his cot, already holding some of the primitive medical supplies. Gúthwyn's brow furrowed, and she dearly hoped that Cobryn's leg would recover. If it did not, she would never stop blaming herself.

Dodging several stares from the other slaves, she made her way to her own cot, feeling a twist of grief as she always did when she saw Chalibeth's empty one. Chalibeth would have believed her, Gúthwyn decided firmly. She would not have asked questions. She would have merely helped to prepare her for the next day's journey.

_The next day…_ she thought suddenly, and then it hit her: She was going to Mordor tomorrow. With a groan, she put her head in her hands. How could she possibly get ready in less than a day? It was not that she had much—indeed, the only possession of hers that she treasured was her necklace, which all these years had remained hidden under her shirt. But the mental preparation would take far longer than what had been given to her.

She became aware of a great rustling surrounding her. Glancing up, she saw that the Mûlnothrim were leaving for their next shift. She remained where she was, having no desire anymore to get up from her cot. Perhaps she could look after Cobryn and tend to his leg, rather than carry out a grueling three hours' worth of work.

Gúthwyn became aware that Abaudia was making her way towards her from Cobryn's cot. She took one look at the older woman and knew that Cobryn had told her about the Uruk's words.

"I am so sorry," Abaudia said simply, bending down and embracing her. Caught off guard, Gúthwyn did not know what to do. She could not remember the last time she had been hugged like that, like a child was by their mother. The grief of the past week came rushing back to her, and tears came to her eyes as she thought once more of Chalibeth lying on the ground, about to be devoured by Wargs. For the first time, it hit her that she would never be able to speak with her friend again, to laugh together, to share what their dreams had been before slavery… Now, whatever she did, it would be without Chalibeth by her side.

"You will not work today," Abaudia told her at last, stepping away and wiping her eyes. "Use the time to—to prepare yourself."

Gúthwyn nodded. She did not trust herself to speak. Abaudia departed, leaving only her and Cobryn in the room. Gúthwyn had the impression that Cobryn wished to say something to her, but she could not bring herself to care. All she wanted to do at the moment was sleep.

"Gúthwyn?" She looked over at her friend, feeling even more wretched when she saw his leg.

"Yes?" Her voice shook.

He seemed to realize that she did not have much interest in a conversation, for he shook his head and said, "Forget it."

"Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked, suppressing a yawn.

Cobryn nodded, and Gúthwyn shrugged. Stretching out on her cot, she turned to her right, away from Chalibeth's empty one. Within moments, she had fallen asleep.

When she awoke, she could see nothing.

Her heart skipped a beat, and she sat up with a start, her breathing heavy and uneven. For a moment, memories of the cage pressed in on her, and she felt as though she were being suffocated. Fearfully, she reached her hand forward; it trembled violently as she groped at the air around her.

It took several more seconds for her to realize that she must have slept for hours: Nighttime had fallen over Isengard. She sighed in relief, her shoulders shuddering. The feeling of being in the cage once more had been so real. And yet she was in the Mûlnothrim dwelling, listening to the steady breathing of the other slaves, envying them for their untroubled sleep.

Now that she was awake, she could not close her eyes and slip from the living world once more. All of the fears that had disappeared during her rest now returned in full force, and she was utterly sick to her stomach with them. Sitting there in the darkness, she felt as though she would vomit; her head was buzzing and her throat had become dry again.

Abruptly, Gúthwyn stood up. She could not stay here. She began feeling her way towards the door, ignoring Cobryn's warning against wandering around the Nan Curunír in solitude. When at last she made it to the end of the room, after a tense moment where Abaudia stirred in her sleep, the daughter of Éomund carefully pushed the door open and stepped outside.

Turning to her left, she jumped in surprise. Cobryn was sitting just ten feet away from her, leaning against the stone ring.

"What are you doing out here?" she whispered. His head swiveled around to face her: he had been gazing up at the sky.

"I could say the same to you," he answered, crossing his arms over his chest.

For a moment, Gúthwyn hesitated, but she went to sit beside him, because there was nothing else to do anyway. "Well?" she asked.

Cobryn looked at her. "What?"

She repeated her question. "What are you doing out here?"

He sighed, but she knew that he was not annoyed at her. "The stars are out tonight," he said simply.

Gúthwyn tilted her head back. He was right. Miraculously, a cool wind had arrived from the northwest and blown away the smoke and vapors of Isengard, leaving visible for the first time in years those pinpricks of light. She had not seen them since she had arrived in this place, and a content feeling came over her. "They are beautiful," she remarked.

Cobryn nodded. "My father used to take me outside at night, just to watch them. He told me the names of all the constellations."

"What are they?" Gúthwyn wanted to know. She had never learned them; instead, she had been taught geography, history, reading, and writing.

Cobryn shook his head. "I do not remember. His face is now a blur to me, and I cannot make sense of what he said."

Gúthwyn could not think of a sadder thing. "You do not remember your own family?" she breathed.

"It has been just under a decade now," Cobryn responded. "Besides, not thinking about them makes it less painful."

His reasoning made sense, but Gúthwyn did not like it at all. "I miss my family," she declared. Cobryn looked at her, his face struggling with mixed emotions, and she rested her head on his shoulder. "I miss them so much," she whispered, and her face was wet with tears.


	21. The Journey East

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Finally, I have given up attempting to apologize for lengthy chapters—sometimes they just happen, and there's nothing I can do to prevent it other than cut out a good deal of detail, which I don't like doing. The last chapter was shorter than usual, and for that I am sure you are grateful. 

**Chapter Twenty**

When Gúthwyn woke up, the first thing she decided was that she hated being sixteen.

As she sat up, realizing with a start that she was only person awake in the dwelling, she reflected that this was the worst week in her entire life. Chalibeth was gone—she still could not think of her friend without wanting to cry—and she was going to Mordor. She did not dwell upon the cage, for that was just bringing up that which was better left buried.

Unusually bright sunlight was streaming in through the window, doing its best to reflect the opposite of Gúthwyn's mood. Absent-mindedly she touched her mangled cheek, dangling her feet on the dirt floor as she did so. She was trying not to think of the fact that this was her last morning at Isengard, and it struck her as ironic that she would actually miss the place.

Before long, the others were up. They carefully avoided Gúthwyn's eyes as they stretched, delaying as long as possible the inevitable moment of farewells. Only Gúthwyn knew that she would not fare well in the Black Land, for how could anyone? It was folly to hope for such impossibility, and she was not a quixotic person.

All too soon Onyveth, who had gone outside with Feride to marvel at the sunlight, came racing back inside. "They are coming!" she shouted, fear evident in her voice.

Gúthwyn stood up, struggling not to cry. Onyveth ran right up to the daughter of Éomund and gave embraced her tightly. "I will miss you," the child sobbed. Gúthwyn hugged her back.

"Keep out of trouble for me," she responded softly. Onyveth nodded and stepped back, allowing the others to say their goodbyes.

Gwollyn and Regwyn said theirs in unison, which surprised no one. She smiled sadly at the brothers, reflecting that she had never gotten the chance to know them well. It seemed that, out of all the missed chances in her life, this was one most grievous.

"Take care," Feride whispered as the two of them embraced. "I wish you all the luck in the world."

Gúthwyn gave a hollow laugh. The very name of Mordor repelled good fortune. Nevertheless, she appreciated Feride's words, and as the two of them parted, she thanked her and said jokingly, "Make sure Lebryn does not become too uncontrollable."

Feride grinned, but the sparkle did not reach her eyes. "Never," she promised, her face sorrowful as Gúthwyn smiled at her one last time.

Gúthwyn had said farewell to four people, and already she was sick of it. Every last word, every last glance, tore at her heart like a thousand knives in every direction. These people had been her family for the past four years, and now she was leaving them to go to a place of horror and despair.

"I want you to take this," Abaudia spoke, breaking Gúthwyn's train of thought. Gúthwyn glanced at the object the older woman held: a simple black cloak. She felt that it was familiar somehow, and yet she could not understand why.

"Thank you," she replied, taking the clothing. As an afterthought, she fastened it about her shoulders, realizing that she had nothing to carry it in.

"It was Chalibeth's," Abaudia explained. "She used it as her pillow, for there was no other need for it here."

Gúthwyn's eyes widened, and she took a handful of the fabric and sniffed at it. The scent of her friend wafted through her nostrils, and it was there that Gúthwyn's self-restraint nearly broke down. This was too much. She should have been able to at least say goodbye to Chalibeth, not scream her name as an announcement of her death.

"Thank you," she at last managed to choke out, forgetting that she had already done so.

Abaudia nodded and patted her on the shoulder before stepping back. Gúthwyn distinctly saw the elder woman reaching up to wipe a tear away. But then Lebryn came before her, and she turned her attentions on him.

"Sorry," he muttered quietly, his black hair falling in front of his face, in desperate need of a cut.

Gúthwyn stared at him, perplexed. "For what?" she asked.

"The way I treated you," Lebryn said simply.

Gúthwyn's response was to pull him into a bone-crushing hug. "Never change," she whispered firmly, feeling emotionally overwhelmed.

Lebryn stiffened in surprise at first, but at length he awkwardly put an arm around her. He looked quiet relieved when she at last let go of him, but faintly pleased. "I will try not to," he answered, attempting valiantly to smirk. "No promises."

Gúthwyn grinned shakily back. There was one more person left, and then no more goodbyes. Turning around, she was not taken aback in the least to see that Cobryn was standing up, even though he was supposed to be resting his leg.

"You should be sitting," she admonished him as she made her way to him. Outside, the pounding feet of the Uruk-hai were becoming louder. She did not have much time left.

"I feel fine," Cobryn lied. Gúthwyn wanted to sob.

"You are always that way," she said softly.

"Takes one to know one," Cobryn countered.

For a moment they just looked at each other; then Gúthwyn flung her arms around him.

"How am I going to survive?" she gasped in a whisper, feeling something wet tumbling down her cheeks.

Cobryn's answer was firm and practical, just as he was. "Do not draw attention to yourself. Keep your head down and do your work. And take comfort in knowing that our thoughts will always be with you."

There was a knock at the door. Abaudia hastened to get it, and Gúthwyn and Cobryn pulled apart.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn murmured, her eyes shining with tears. "F-For everything."

"It was my pleasure," Cobryn spoke, taking her hand and squeezing it. When he let go, Gúthwyn felt something snapping in her heart. She could not look at him anymore, or she would completely lose it.

Turning away, she wiped her eyes and stepped forward. There was an Uruk in the doorway, waiting for her impatiently. "Move faster," he growled.

Gúthwyn obeyed, already following Cobryn's advice. She kept her head bowed, approaching the creature with all the timid characteristics of a well-learned slave. There was nothing to be gained from pride at this moment; only humility would serve. Each movement forward brought a calming numbness to her brain.

When she reached the Uruk, he grabbed her roughly by the arm and thrust her outside, slamming the door behind him. Gúthwyn winced at the noise.

"Walk faster," the Uruk snarled, though he was in fact moving her along more than she was. Gúthwyn glanced up to where they were headed, and a strangled noise escaped her when she saw around twenty-five fierce-looking Uruk-hai awaiting her arrival. These would be the only beings she had contact with for the entire journey. A part of her wanted to scream, kick, run, hide; whatever was necessary to change that. But the more reasonable half of her, the one that listened to Cobryn, tilted her head to the ground once more and kept moving forward.

The Uruk that was escorting her merged with its companions, steering her towards a pair of feet that were bigger than the others. Gúthwyn could not help herself—she raised her head, wrinkling her nose as she did so: the smell was hideous.

"You're late." The Uruk that had spoken was clearly the leader of this troop. He was glaring at her with mingled fury and annoyance. "We should have been gone by now."

Gúthwyn said nothing, and was rewarded with a slap across the face. She bit her lip to keep from crying out when his hand connected to her wound.

"Anything else holding us up?" the leader asked, staring menacingly at the troop. There were several grunts stating otherwise, and the Uruk's scarred face twisted into a semblance of satisfaction. "Good," the creature growled. "Let's move!"

With a terrifying surge, the Uruks began moving. Gúthwyn found herself being shoved into the center of the group, with the promise of punishment if she strayed from it. They set the pace at a brisk jog, soon passing around Orthanc and drawing swiftly near the tunnel that led out of the Nan Curunír. All around them, the workers stopped and stared. Gúthwyn realized that she was remarkably conspicuous—a human woman surrounded by monstrous escorts.

When they arrived at the tunnel she was surprised, for Saruman was there. The wizard gave no sign that he recognized her, and instead beckoned to the leader with a gnarled finger. The Uruk stepped forward and exchanged several words with Saruman, none of which Gúthwyn could catch. Not that she tried very hard; she was still struggling to accept the fact that, in a few minutes' time, she would be outside the Wizard's Vale for the first time in four years. It all seemed utterly unreal to her.

Eventually, Saruman broke off his conversation with the Uruk, and his cold dark eyes, glittering in the morning sun, raked the troop for Gúthwyn. When they at last fell upon her he smiled cruelly. Even from a distance, she could discern his amusement. Momentarily forgetting Cobryn's advice, she met his gaze evenly, determined not to look away as before.

Completely snubbing her challenge, the wizard glanced back to the head Uruk and nodded. The creature raised his hand, and once again Gúthwyn was surrounded by a horde of running Uruk-hai, trying her best to keep up with them. At the present, it was not very difficult: they were entering the tunnel, sweeping around Saruman, and they could not move with much speed.

Inside the tunnel, however, Gúthwyn felt strands of fear wind themselves about her. The passage was dark, and she was engulfed in a swarm of loathsome bodies, unable to see anything. She slowed for an instant, blinded, feeling as though the very stone walls were pressing in on her; a second later, she was slammed from behind by one of the Uruks.

Gasping for air like a fish out of water, Gúthwyn struggled to regain the pace, a fight that she did not win until they had poured out of the tunnel and into the bright sunlight. There she was amazed, for she had nearly forgotten that there was, indeed, a world outside of Isengard, and not just the foolish dreams of a naïve girl.

Upon seeing them, she remembered clearly the acres of gardens—now falling prey to ranks of weeds, neglected as the years passed—and the stone path flanked by chains and wooden posts. The Uruks were running along this, seemingly impervious to the hard surface slapping at their feet. A quick glance, however, showed that instead of boots they wore shoes made out of iron.

_I wish I had some of those,_ Gúthwyn found herself thinking as her feet began aching from the unrelenting stone. Away on both sides of the path, she could hear the slow trickling of water. It sounded as though the streams were drying up.

"Faster!" an Uruk behind her snapped. Banishing all thoughts of cool, refreshing water away from her mind, Gúthwyn bent her head down and ran quicker. Already her throat was becoming dry. She had not yet recovered from the dehydration of the cage.

_Nor will I, if this keeps up,_ she thought, wondering how long the Uruk-hai would run for, and when they would stop to rest. She had no idea how they were going to get to Mordor; she remembered only vaguely a map of Middle-earth that Théodred had shown her once.

They had run about half a mile in Gúthwyn's reckoning when the whole troop parted to avoid the chilling pillar. She had no trouble recalling the deathly pale finger that pointed northward, showing the way to Isengard. They were traveling south, then, she decided as the Uruks rejoined and continued running.

Eventually, the paved road disappeared altogether, and Gúthwyn was struck by the fact that she was truly leaving Isengard. It was so strange to see no sign of the wizard's craftsmanship, when she had lived for so long within his boundaries. The only suggestion that it even existed was the Isen, its waters running freely to her right, a course that eventually led back to the Nan Curunír.

This river the Uruks followed southward, always keeping within sight of its banks. Gúthwyn found the temptation of fresh water almost more than she could bear as the day wore on, bringing with it a burning afternoon sun. Not once did the Uruks slacken their pace, and several hours into the journey the daughter of Éomund thought it an unrelenting misery. Her feet were dragging, and each step forward was its own separate hell.

At last, she could go no further. As the afternoon waned, exhaustion, hunger, and thirst overcame her, and she stumbled. To her surprise, she was immediately picked up and slung on the back of an Uruk, as easily as though she were naught but a child. Too tired to protest, Gúthwyn slipped into a troubled sleep; an uneasy rest that was haunted by dark nightmares, where something was pressing onto her and she wanted to scream but she could not, and everything was hot and confusing and frightening. She woke from these shaking with terror, for some inexplicable reason feeling as though she were covered in dirt.

The constant running continued well into the night. Gúthwyn was occasionally switched from the back of one Uruk to another. The first change had come so suddenly that it startled her; now, as she thought the sky was lightening the slightest bit, she was too weary to concern herself with worries. The only sleep she could find in her current situation was rough and short lasting, and not much better than when she was awake.

Sunlight was just starting to warm the right side of her face when the Uruk-hai stopped. Gúthwyn gave a sharp gasp of pain as she was dropped onto the ground, landing painfully on her side. The Uruk who had released her grunted at the figure below him. She looked at him, wondering if it was worth asking for food. Her stomach was rumbling with hunger.

As if he read her mind, the creature rummaged around in a small pack he bore and produced a slip of meat. "Eat it," he commanded, shoving it at her with contempt. Gúthwyn glanced at it and nearly gagged: Its edges were blackened, and the smell coming from it was sickening enough to remind her of the corpses in the Wargs' cage.

The Uruk was still watching her. Arranging herself into a more comfortable position, Gúthwyn held the food up to her mouth. For a moment, disgust overwhelmed her, and she paused, wrinkling her nose. At length, she composed herself. Before she could think twice about what she was doing, she shoved the meat into her mouth and took a big bite out of it.

Immediately she began choking—the food was raw. Her hands pressed over her stomach, Gúthwyn forced the food down her throat, trying to swallow as much as she was able without chewing it. The Uruk growled in amusement as he watched her, taking evident pleasure in her troubles.

Eventually, she had gotten the entire bite down. She felt utterly sick, and could not bring herself to even look at the rest of the meat. With a groan, she dropped it on the ground beside her, curling up and wrapping her arms around her belly. The pounding feeling had returned to her head again and she screwed her face up in agony, wishing for it to pass.

It did not take long for her to reject the loathsome food that she had provided. She rolled over as it came spewing out of her mouth uncontrollably, holding her hair out of the way as the grass was doused with her vomit. When she was done, she spat out the remainder of the bile—she could not bring herself to wipe it off on Chalibeth's cloak—and sat back up, shaking and trembling. With a sweaty hand, she grasped the leftover meat and flung it back at the Uruk, wishing to place as much distance between it and herself.

The Uruk scowled furiously. Coming up to her, it aimed a kick at her head that sent her sprawling on the ground.

"You'll learn to like it," he snarled, "or else." With that, he dropped the meat on her face and turned away.

Gúthwyn choked, feeling nausea coming over her once more. She ripped the food off of her and lay there, panting, until another Uruk loomed over her. "Get up," it ordered. Gúthwyn was able to smell his breath even from five feet below him.

Still struggling to master her queasy stomach, Gúthwyn got to her knees and from there stood up.

"Now you're going to run yerself, understand?" the Uruk snapped. "My lads are tired of carrying you around."

Gúthwyn sighed, her legs already aching, the taste in her mouth near unbearable. From the way the Uruk referred to his companions, whom at the moment were standing stiffly, it seemed that he was a sort of second-in-command. Reinforcing her guess, he turned to the rest of the troop and, at a signal from the leader, shouted, "Let's move!"

And as the Uruks turned southward to continue their journey, Gúthwyn resigned herself to another long, hellish day. She was right: By mid-morning, the heat from the sun was such that rivulets of sweat began pouring down her face, adding to her endless discomforts. At noontime she collapsed yet again, and this time the furious leader used his whip on her.

She was then slung behind an Uruk, her back bleeding, her cloak slightly torn, feeling as though she would die. The running continued long past nightfall. When they at last stopped, she was force-fed the foul meat. As before, she could not keep it down, and she was whipped several more times before an Uruk poured a horrible-tasting liquid down her throat. Almost instantaneously, a hot feeling spread throughout her entire body, giving her renewed strength and allowing her to run with more ease than before.

In this manner the next week passed. Every day Gúthwyn was forced to run until she collapsed; as the journey wore on, she was able to go for longer periods of time. Whenever she stumbled an Uruk would pick her up, and she was carried until the entire troop stopped. At that point, she would be given the repulsive food. Eventually, she could tolerate small amounts of it, though she felt nauseous for hours afterwards.

It was not until the end of the second week that the routine was broken—broken by an event that, though she did not know it, would change her life and its entire meaning.


	22. A Broken Family

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book One**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-One:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Twenty-One**

Gúthwyn wearily wiped her grimy face, panting heavily in the hot afternoon sun. The Uruks had stopped for a few minutes' rest, as it was unusually humid for this time of year. She was taking full advantage of this opportunity to rest her aching feet. Propped up against a boulder, her legs stretched out before her, she closed her eyes slightly and tried to quell her uneasy stomach.

Feelings of nausea had plagued her for over a week now. Try as she might, she could not get accustomed to the foul meat she was fed—more often than not it ended up on the ground beside her. As a result, she was becoming increasingly thinner and starved in appearance. She did not know it, but now, motionless as she sat, one could have mistaken her for dead.

She groaned as another wave of queasiness swept over her. Reaching up to push her straggly hair off her face, she blearily opened her eyes a little bit and looked at her surroundings. They were dismal, such as they had been for awhile. It seemed that the only things changing were the Uruks that took it in turns to guard her; even they started to look alike as time wore on.

The current one was eyeing her distrustfully, as though she might spring up and attempt to escape at any moment. Gúthwyn tried to ignore his ceaseless stare, focusing her gaze instead on the lands about her. They were bleak, and slowly fading into marshland. Up until now, they had made relatively fast time, as the open plains made for a journey unhindered by disruptions in the landscape. But they were nearing the Great River—she had overheard some of the Uruks discussing it—and the lands were becoming softer and unkempt as they went further east.

Sighing, Gúthwyn shook her head and wondered why they had been resting for so long. Some of the other Uruks had left to scout some ways ahead, as the growing marshes made it more difficult to see over long distances, and should have returned by now. She had long ago given up the hope that they would run into an _éored_; the fields of Rohan were strangely empty of all living creatures. _Just my luck_, she thought cynically, coughing as she did so.

Suddenly she heard a commotion on the outskirts of the troop. Sitting up straighter, she raised a hand over her eyes and looked for its source. It remained a mystery not for long: The Uruks had come back, and they were not alone. They carried with them human prisoners.

Gúthwyn gasped, staring in shock at the captives. They seemed to be a family; one was a tall man, fighting fiercely against the Uruks restraining him. He already had a bruise forming on his head and his lip was split, sending scarlet blood dribbling down his chin. There was a shorter, lithe woman, cries escaping from her lips, her eyes horror-filled. Gúthwyn followed her gaze, and her heart clenched when she saw two small children, a boy and a girl, each held by an Uruk and sobbing hysterically.

Without becoming aware of it, she stood up; the woman caught sight of her. "Help!" she screamed at Gúthwyn, her golden hair flying wildly about her terrified face. "My children!"

Gúthwyn started, lunging forward, but had taken no more than two steps before she was blocked by her guard. "Stay," he ordered, thrusting his arms out.

"No!" Gúthwyn snarled, attempting to dart past him towards the family. In the blink of an eye, she was lying on the ground, her head throbbing. Before she could make sense of what had just happened, the Uruk now standing above her stomped his foot onto her chest. Instantly, all the breath left her body.

"Mama!" she heard the young girl shriek. Moaning in pain, Gúthwyn clutched at the Uruk's foot, attempting to wrench it off of her, all the while craning her neck to see what was going on.

The man was still wrestling against the Uruks. "Let them go!" he roared at the nearest one. "Kill me if you must, but spare them!"

The captain, whose name Gúthwyn had learned was Thrak, laughed hideously. Striding forward, he grabbed the man's hair and yanked him close, muttering words that Gúthwyn could not catch. But the next minute he howled in an agony that inexplicably made her want to weep. "NO! Please!"

This only made the captain laugh harder. "Kill her!" he yelled at the Uruk-hai holding the woman. She paled, looking as though she might faint. Gúthwyn heard the responding screams of the children, and felt like she was trapped in a never-ending nightmare. She shook the Uruk's foot vigorously, but he merely pressed it down more.

Everything seemed to slow down mercilessly; in spite of herself, she could not look away as one of Saruman's creatures approached the woman with his knife drawn. The woman did not struggle, even as the cries of the man and children echoed throughout the group, but instead pleaded in a loud ringing voice, "Save my children! I am begging you!"

The Uruk paused for a split second before driving the knife straight into her face. Gúthwyn gasped in horror. The woman collapsed, rivers of blood flowing down her cheeks. The man roared furiously, his dark eyes ravaged with wild hatred and despair.

"NO!" he screamed again, wrenching against the Uruks. Laughing, they pulled him back. "A curse on all of you!"

Thrak grinned, baring his foul teeth before turning to the children. Gúthwyn felt sick just looking at their faces. The boy was crying silently, unable to take his eyes off the now-still remains of his mother. The girl was screaming incessantly, repeating "mama" over and over again in an endless cry.

"Liked that, didn't you?" the captain asked them. They only cried harder in response.

"Leave them alone!" the man bellowed.

Slowly, the captain turned back to the man. Gúthwyn drew in her breath, wondering what would happen next.

"Want me to leave them alone, do you?" Thrak hissed, so low that she could barely hear it. "You'll wish you'd never said that, boy, when I'm through with you!" He strode towards the man, hefting up his sword. "Move!" he growled at the other Uruks.

They scattered, even the ones holding the man; defenseless, he took a step backward as the captain converged on him. It was futile, Gúthwyn knew, and she was right. In a matter of seconds the creature swung his sword down upon the prisoner. The man attempted to move away, but he was too slow: With a sickening noise of metal tearing through flesh, Thrak chopped off his left arm.

The man dropped to his knees, screaming in agony as blood poured out of the stump, staining the ground a dark red. Gúthwyn felt sick and closed her eyes, but she was powerless to block her ears. The laughter of the Uruks and the shrieking of the children blended together in one ghastly sound, a noise so hideous that she thought she would never rid herself of its memory.

"That was just the beginning!" the captain roared, advancing upon his victim again. This time, the man was unable to move as the sword came swinging at him. Against her will, but incapable of resisting, Gúthwyn opened her eyes just in time to see his remaining arm fall to the ground.

She thought she would be sick as the cries from the children doubled. The Uruks were drawing closer towards the man, surrounding him like a pack of wolves. Gúthwyn was reminded of the Wargs, and her nausea heightened. _Please,_ she found herself thinking, _no more_.

Her wish was not granted. The man was still kneeling on the ground, his once-working arms now bleeding stubs, his face contorted in agony beyond description. Thrak stood over him again, a vulture feasting upon a corpse, his sword now scarlet with the man's blood. With one smooth motion, the creature slid the blade in and out of the man's stomach, repeating it thrice more. The man collapsed on the ground and gasped out his life, his last breath coming with a bubble of blood bursting from his mouth.

This time Gúthwyn really was sick. She vomited all over the foot of the Uruk restraining her, causing him to yank it off her in disgust. She was too weak and horror-struck to move; she merely lay there, trying to regain her breath. Perhaps the Uruk thought she would throw up again, for the seconds lengthened and ironclad foot did not come pressing down on her chest.

"And now it's your turn, children!" she heard the captain yell.

_No!_ Gúthwyn thought, horrified. She could not save the adults, but she would honor the woman's final request. With a sudden surge of energy and purpose she leapt to her feet, taking off towards the children almost before her guard realized what was happening.

"Oi!" The shout echoed behind her as she dodged around an Uruk, intent on reaching the children before it was too late. Another made a lunge for her and missed; she ducked under the arms of a third, keeping her eyes on the boy and girl.

"Get the girl!" She was almost at her goal when something slammed into her from the side. With a groan of pain she fell to the ground. Her arms were immediately grabbed and pinned behind her back; the Uruk holding her pressed her face into the ground, only pausing to jerk it back up and thrust it down again. Dirt entered her mouth and she choked, struggling uselessly against her captor's grip.

"Stop!" the captain finally barked. Gasping in pain, Gúthwyn looked up to see him striding towards her. She barely had time to cringe before he bent down and seized her by the hair. "Thought that was funny, did you?" he growled, drawing her close to him. The stench of his breath was horrible. "Thought you'd try to escape?"

"Let the children go!" Gúthwyn managed, feeling as if she would suffocate from the combined pressure of the Uruk behind her and the captain in front of her. "Do what you will with me, but save them!"

"That's what he said," Thrak smirked, pointing behind him at the corpse of the man. Gúthwyn tried not to look at it. "See what happened to him?"

"You cannot kill me," Gúthwyn gasped out. "You are under orders to bring me to the Black Land!"

The captain reached back and then punched her in the face, sending her reeling to the side. "Don't ever tell me what I can or can't do again, you filthy, worthless slave!" he hissed. "Or I _will_ kill you, orders or not!"

Gúthwyn glared right into his eyes, terrified of what she was about to do, praying that it would work. "If you slay them I shall kill myself, and you will pay for it."

"Only a fool says that," the captain sneered. "You don't have the courage."

"Only a fool underestimates that which he does not know," Gúthwyn countered, leaning forward so that she was closer to the blade Thrak still held in his hand.

She must have looked fiercer than she felt, for the captain gnashed his teeth and said to the other Uruk, "Release her." The second the orders were obeyed, he grabbed her by the neck and pulled her close. "You think you've done them a service, but you'll wish they were dead in Mordor!" With that, he spat in her face and let go of her.

Gúthwyn fell to the ground, shocked that he had acquiesced with her demand. She had thought the cause hopeless. Tilting her head towards the sky, she silently thanked the Valar for allowing her this gift. _Do not let them ever come to harm,_ she prayed. _I care not what happens to me, as long as they survive._

She had barely finished her plea when a large hand grabbed her by the back of her neck, hauling her up roughly. Thrak stood before her.

"They're your responsibility," he said. "You'll share your food and water with them. Understood?"

"Understood," Gúthwyn answered shortly, focusing her gaze on the children. She was only a few yards away, and could see them much clearer now.

The boy looked to be a few years older than the girl; he had curly brown hair and dark eyes, which were wide with terror and apprehension. The girl could not have been older than two. She had stuffed her fingers in her mouth, tears streaming out of her grey eyes. A mess of light hair tumbled down her shoulders. Both of them were staring at Gúthwyn suspiciously.

She tried to smile, but she could not manage it. They were brought forward by the Uruks and deposited unceremoniously before her. The girls' tears intensified as she looked upon Gúthwyn, and horrible embarrassment came over her as she remembered the mess that was her face.

"If there's any more trouble, I'll kill the lot of you, orders or not," Thrak snarled. "Now let's move!"

As the Uruks began standing up, Gúthwyn gazed at the children. How were they going to run? She had not thought of that. The boy might be able to keep up for a bit, but the girl seemed as though she had barely learned to walk.

"Who you?" the girl sniffled; steady tears still leaked out of her eyes. Gúthwyn felt her heart go out to her instantly. She squatted down so she was eye level with the child. "My name is Gúthwyn, little one," she said softly. "I am going to take care of you now."

"Mama."

"She is not coming back," Gúthwyn answered, wishing she could have given all the gold in the world to not have to say this. "She has… She has passed on."

"Mama," the girl repeated, shaking her head.

"Haiweth," the boy spoke quietly.

"Is that her name?" Gúthwyn asked. She received a nod in response. "And what is your name?"

"Hammel," he responded shortly, looking as if he were still unsure whether to trust her.

Gúthwyn glanced around. The Uruks were starting to move. "Hammel, can you run for a little while?"

Hammel watched the Uruk-hai for a few seconds. "They killed them."

"Hammel, please, can you run?" Gúthwyn questioned, feeling horrible for not being able to comfort him.

"Yes," Hammel whispered, still staring at the Uruks.

"Haiweth." Gúthwyn now directed her gaze at the youngest. "I am going to carry you, do you understand?"

"Mama!" the girl cried.

"Hammel will be right near you," Gúthwyn added, almost in a pleading tone. They had to start running now, or the captain would notice the delay.

She reached out for the girl and picked her up; almost immediately Haiweth began squirming. "Mama!" she near-shrieked.

"Haiweth, be quiet," Hammel told her, though not unkindly. "Mama is gone."

"No!" Haiweth cried.

"Hammel, start running," Gúthwyn said; the whip-carrying Uruks were drawing nearer. She began moving as well, her arms already aching from carrying the child. She reckoned that, well before the day was over, she would feel a lot worse.

Haiweth seemed startled by the sudden motion and was silenced for a few moments; she twisted her head this way and that, clinging to Gúthwyn's neck as she stared around at Saruman's servants. Then she buried her head in Gúthwyn's shoulder, whimpering for her mother.

Gúthwyn wished dearly that she could comfort the child, but it was beyond her to do so while running. Instead, she briefly patted the girl on the back and whispered to her, "Do not worry, Haiweth, I will keep you and your brother safe."

The promise proved near impossible to keep. Hammel, thoroughly exceeding all of Gúthwyn's expectations, lasted almost an hour before falling in a pitiful heap on the ground. The daughter of Éomund had picked him up in her other arm, and luckily no punishment had been meted out. However, Gúthwyn was already worn out from carrying Haiweth. She would never complain, but the addition of Hammel made the journey nothing short of a waking nightmare.

Every step forward felt like it would be her last; as she grew steadily more exhausted, the Uruks seemed to gain energy and run faster. Her breath was coming in short, sharp gasps. More than once, she had to shift Haiweth out of the way and spit thick white fluid onto the ground. She thought the ordeal would never end.

When it finally did, when the Uruks finally stopped, Gúthwyn was barely able to lower the now sleeping children to the ground before collapsing. She felt nauseous from running for so long. Clutching her stomach, she concentrated on regaining her breath, every muscle in her body screaming in agony.

She had been lying there for about a minute when she felt someone poking her in the back. Rolling over, she squinted at the figure in the darkness. It was Hammel.

"I thought you were asleep," she whispered, glancing over at Haiweth. The girl was still unconscious, dried tear streaks on her face.

"I was," Hammel said just as quietly, studying her seriously. "But I woke up."

"Are you feeling alright?" Gúthwyn asked him.

He shrugged. "Are they going to find Mama and Papa?"

Gúthwyn was amazed at how calm he was. "They will not remain unburied for long," she answered. "Where are you from?"

"East Emmet."

Gúthwyn knitted her brow in confusion, and then realized what he meant. "East _Emnet_," she said. "You are from Rohan, as am I." She had never traveled to the East Emnet before, as it was sparsely populated and there were no lodgings Théoden saw fit for his nephew and nieces.

"Emmet," Hammel repeated.

"Do you wish for anything to eat?"

"Not hungry."

"Try to go to sleep," Gúthwyn told him, wanting fervently to do so herself. But there was no sign of tiredness from Hammel. Instead, he asked her another question.

"Where are they taking us?"

Gúthwyn sighed, shaking her head as she sat up. "It is a place ill-suited for someone such as yourself, Hammel. It is known as the land of Mordor. I fear I have doomed you to a life as a slave." She thought on the whole that slavery was preferable to death, yet little did she know how different the Black Land was from Isengard.

"A slave?" Hammel wrinkled his nose in confusion.

"You do someone's work for them," Gúthwyn explained, choosing to leave out the nastier aspects. "They will not give you much to do in the beginning, for you are but a child."

"That sounds boring," Hammel said.

There was much this boy had to learn. "I wish it were," she replied, turning her head away as a wave of painful memories came over her. Back in Isengard, Chalibeth's blood still soaked the floor of the Warg stables. Cobryn, Lebryn, and the others awoke every day to hours of thankless labor, leagues of empty lands separating them from her. Did any of them think of her at all? Or was she just another unfortunate loss? Was Chalibeth up there, watching over her? Or was her friend waiting patiently for when they would be joined again, knowing that it was not far off?

She had not even realized her shoulders were shaking with dry sobs until she heard Hammel's voice, sounding as if it were from a long way away.

"Why are you sad?"

Gúthwyn started, then turned back to look at him. What she could see of his eyes in the dark showed concern and compassion, such as few others of his age had. She realized that, from now on, she had two children to take care of. Her own emotions needed to be placed behind theirs.

"I am fine," she told him, banishing her miserable thoughts. "Do not worry about me."

Hammel watched her for a moment, and then suddenly moved closer and wrapped his arms about her. The action so surprised her that for a time she did not know what to do; but then she returned the gesture, pulling him close to her. He was sobbing now.

"I miss them," he cried. "The-the black mo-monsters h-hurt them a-and they're g-g-gone!"

Gúthwyn held him tighter, stroking his hair as she made the vow that she would soon live her life by. "I cannot make them come back, but I will take care of both of you for them. I will do all that is in my power to protect you from any harm. If I fail, I do not deserve the gift of life."

It was doubtful that Hammel understood much of what she said, but she thought that his crying lessened the tiniest bit. As he slowly started to fall asleep, Gúthwyn raised her head to the stars above and prayed that she would be able to keep her promise. _If I cannot,_ she thought, _smite me where I stand, for I would not wish to live knowing that I betrayed their trust._

For, as she was soon to find out, trust was a precious thing—when it was broken, sometimes it would take a lifetime to recover.


	23. Strange Meetings

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Two:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. In the case of Hammel, I just made it up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Twenty-Two**

After three weeks of journeying across the plains of Rohan, around the marshlands, and briefly through the forests of Ithilien, they were at last within sight of Mordor.

The first glimpse Gúthwyn and the children had of the Black Land were the mountains—the ranges of Ephel Dúath and Ered Lithui, formidable and barren against the sky. Gúthwyn could not believe how drastically the landscape and climate had changed after they had emerged from Ithilien. The scraggly growth had given way to increasingly barren terrain. The air had become more difficult to inhale; black fumes and ash such as she had never seen before blew towards them from the East, causing her and the children many a coughing fit. The Uruks seemed well adapted to the harsh environment, but she could not grow accustomed to it.

Another factor weighing heavily upon Gúthwyn were the clouds. She would never have believed that sky could be so dark, and yet it was nearly black. It seemed as though an eternal struggle between night and day gripped this place, with night ever the victor. As they drew closer to the mountains, the light was steadily fading; however, it was still early in the morning, and the sun was just beginning to rise over the land.

The Uruks were running faster now, hoping to reach their destination before noon. Gúthwyn followed as best as she could, still clutching the two children. Her stamina and strength had improved tremendously over the week—yet she was almost glad that they were nearing Mordor, so exhausted was she towards the end of the day.

Gúthwyn felt her breath catching in her chest as they began rounding the shoulder of the Ephel Dúath. The Uruk-hai were running right alongside the mountains, hugging the bottom of the ridge, and she could see nothing over its top. Her stomach was beginning to feel nauseous again, even though she had had naught to eat for breakfast. Within the hour, she would see the Black Land.

Haiweth was clinging to her tightly, burying her face in Gúthwyn's hair, occasionally whimpering in fright. Gúthwyn's heart went out to the poor child, but she was at a loss for how to comfort her. She barely had breath enough to run, let alone speak. Hammel, on the other hand, was battling his fear in silence. She detected in him a sense of pride, much like her own in the days before Isengard. _Soon you will learn to abandon it,_ she thought sadly.

Almost before she was aware of it, the Uruks came around the last of the Ephel Dúath, the final mountain that separated them from a place of death and horror. With a sharp gasp of both awe and terror, Gúthwyn stared upwards at the place she would live in for the rest of her life.

The entrance into Mordor, known as the Black Gate or the Morannon, was heavily guarded. A gigantic wall of iron stretched between the Ephel Dúath and the Ered Lithui, joining the two ranges to form an impenetrable barrier. There were two towers on either end, also of iron—Gúthwyn remembered them being described as the Towers of the Teeth. Their names were Carchost, "Fang-fort," and Narchost, "Fire-fort"; together, they stood like looming guards, threatening even those that manned them. Gúthwyn could feel their menacing presence even from a distance.

A countless number of sentinels stood on top of the wall, perpetually scanning the surrounding lands for sign of activity. Gúthwyn could not see them very well, but she thought they were more human-like in appearance. At any rate, they did not have the sloping strides of the Orcs, nor the powerful, muscular walk of the Uruks.

Her exclamation of amazement had caused the two children to look up. Haiweth gave a cry of terror, clutching Gúthwyn's neck tighter and nearly choking her. Hammel gazed at it for a while, obviously attempting to disguise his fear and seem brave. Gúthwyn could read the horror in his eyes as easily as she could read a book.

At a shout from the guards on top of the Black Gate, the entire troop of Uruks halted. Gúthwyn attempted to catch her breath and reassure the children at the same time. "It will be alright," she panted. "You have nothing to worry about." She prayed that her words were true, and that any harm done to the captives would come to her alone. _Please, let it be so._

The Uruk captain Thrak raised his hand. A harsh, guttural string of words spewed from his mouth, evidently a password of some sort. With a low groan, the Black Gate began to open, the sound of grating iron and metal shrieking in their ears. Haiweth began sobbing.

"Don't want to go!" she cried, tears leaking out of her eyes.

"Haiweth, you will be fine. I will see that no one harms you," Gúthwyn reassured the child, awkwardly managing to pat her on the back: She was holding Hammel with the other arm.

As if sensing Gúthwyn's discomfort, Hammel slid out of her clutch and landed on the ground, coughing as he did so. Gúthwyn looked at him. "Do you wish to walk now?" she asked, mildly surprised.

Hammel nodded, gripping her hand tightly, his other hand clenched in a tiny fist. His eyes stared straight ahead, narrowed against what was to come. Gúthwyn glanced between him and the sobbing Haiweth in her arms, wishing that it were anywhere but this place that they would live out their days in.

The Black Gate was opened wider now; Gúthwyn could see a dry, desolate land—but it was not empty. Hundreds upon hundreds of tents had been constructed, housing the uncountable number of soldiers milling about. They looked to be all humans, though Gúthwyn could not be entirely sure. The sheer numbers overwhelmed her: Never before had she seen so many people crowded into one place.

"Move!" The snarl from behind her snapped her from her thoughts with the stinging bite of a whip. Gúthwyn winced, instinctively tightening her hold on Hammel and Haiweth. Together, the three of them began moving forward with the other Uruks. Mordor drew closer by the second, the Black Gate opening its foul mouth to swallow them whole.

Gúthwyn found that her legs were shaking in terror. Every part of her body screamed at her to run away, to run away with the children and never look back. But still she kept walking forward, almost automatically, and still the Black Land was coming closer. Even the Uruk-hai seemed tiny in comparison to this place.

They were almost at the Morannon now. Gúthwyn could make out a tall, robed figure sitting upright on a black horse. For reasons she was unable to explain, she felt a horrible tremor of fear. It seemed Hammel agreed with her, for he grasped her leg and hid behind it. A few of the Uruks snickered at this, but for the most part they were silent, gazing upon the desolate lands with stern faces.

The very air about them seemed still as the troop passed in between the Towers of Teeth. The gates were thrown wide open, yet Gúthwyn felt as though they were clanging shut behind her and the children. There would be no escape from this land.

"Be calm, young one," Gúthwyn murmured to Haiweth, but she spoke also to herself. She could feel the stares of the horsed figure and the sentinels upon the Morannon fixated on her and the children.

An Uruk pushed her forward, and then Gúthwyn found herself being shunted to the front of the group to stand beside the captain. She got a closer look at the man upon the horse; immediately, she shrunk away in fear. The horse was enormous, with a head more skull-like than anything. In its eyes and nostrils seemed to burn a searing flame. Upon him the figure was no less frightening—its eyes were veiled by a thick helm, but its mouth was pitted, scarred, and oozing blood.

Thrak gripped her arm tightly, thrusting her forward a little bit. The cloaked rider began trotting towards the troop, causing Gúthwyn to cringe. Hammel had all but disappeared behind her.

"Who are the younglings?" the rider hissed at the Uruk captain, his voice sending shivers up and down Gúthwyn's spine. She felt as though she would vomit at the sight of his mouth forming every word.

"They were captured on the road," Thrak responded. "She—" he jerked his finger at Gúthwyn "—wanted them."

The rider bared his teeth in distaste. "We have no use for them here, you fools!"

Gúthwyn watched the Thrak frown, knowing that he now had to justify keeping the children. "They can do small tasks."

The horse took another step forward. "This is where we train the army!" Gúthwyn suddenly noticed a long pale sword hanging by his side.

"I will take care of them," she argued. "They will do whatever you want them to do."

"I do not recall allowing you to speak," the rider snarled, flecks of spit flying from his mouth.

Just then, there was a shout from the battlements above. The rider glanced up, then cursed.

"Bring her here," he ordered shortly. "I have more pressing business to attend to."

Before Gúthwyn had time to back away, Thrak had thrust her forward. The rider dismounted and moved towards her, causing Haiweth to shriek in fear. Gúthwyn clutched the child tighter.

"Give me your hand," the rider spat.

Gúthwyn looked at him, confused, and remained still.

Instantly, almost faster than she could see, the rider unsheathed his sword and held the point before Haiweth's face. "Do it," he ordered.

She shifted most of Haiweth's weight to the left and stuck out her right arm. Every nerve in the limb was clamoring to be yanked away, and yet she left it there as he took hold of it. Shuddering, she wondered with trepidation what he was going to do next.

The answer was not long in coming. Seemingly from nowhere, he withdrew a long brand, flaming red against his dark garments. With a sudden movement, he twisted Gúthwyn's arm and pressed the instrument to the inside of her wrist. Instantly, a searing pain engulfed her. She felt her knees buckling and the air leaving her body; gasping sharply, she tried to jerk it away, but he held tight.

A few seconds later, it was over. The brand was taken away, leaving a ghastly symbol on her wrist. It was a crude drawing of an eye, its red gaze hideous to behold. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as she realized she had been branded like an animal, and that this terrible mark would remain on her skin forever. Instantly, she wished for a spring of water to bathe in.

When she looked back up in horror, the rider had already mounted his horse again. Several Mordor Uruks were coming up behind him, ready to relieve Saruman's servants of their charges. "Put her somewhere in the camp. Haldor's second has room in his tent," the rider spoke. Without another word, he dug his heels into the horse and wheeled about, galloping towards Carchost like thunder upon the ground. It was the last Gúthwyn ever saw of him.

The Uruks she had spent the past three weeks with had turned around, and were now making their way to the Black Gate. Their first job done, they would resume scouting about the Great River—she had heard Thrak speak of it one night.

For a moment, Gúthwyn and the children were alone, watching with apprehension the approaching Uruks of Mordor. They came swiftly, surrounding them like a black flood. One of them, obviously the leader, strode right up to Gúthwyn so she could smell his foul breath. "Stay with us, and don't make any trouble." He then gave the two children a leering look, his gaze lingering on Haiweth.

"Let's move!" he said finally, raising his arm and pointing it towards the sea of tents. Gúthwyn reached down and offered her hand to Hammel. The boy took it as they began walking. If the situation had not been so terrible, Gúthwyn might have laughed to see what they looked like: A group of monstrous creatures escorting a young woman and two children.

They reached the encampment in no time. Haiweth clung to Gúthwyn tighter, and Hammel slowly started shrinking behind her leg. Gúthwyn wanted nothing more than to have someone to protect her as well, and yet it was her job to be brave for the children. It was difficult, however, when all she could see were fierce-looking men; some twice her age, others twice as strong, all at least a foot taller than her. There were crooked weapons lying about everywhere, along with various pieces of armor.

Beyond the tents was an enormous stretch of land. She could see countless numbers of men there, practicing with each other. The clanging of swords was evident even from this distance.

"Move it!" one of the Uruks snarled, and Gúthwyn realized she had slowed down considerably. Not wishing to be whipped again, she picked up the speed, allowing the rows of tents to swallow her.

The Uruks marched her and the children through the camp, heading for the training men. Gúthwyn glanced around nervously. Everywhere she looked, tall and imposing men stopped what they were doing to stare incredulously at the new arrivals. Most of them seemed as though they could not believe their eyes. She tried to ignore the leering looks she was receiving from some of them.

After what felt like hours of this, the Uruks at last arrived at the training grounds. The air was filled with the grunts and shouts of men, and the clashing noise of metal on metal. Here, at least, everyone was too busy to stare at them. Gúthwyn momentarily glanced to her left and felt her heart stop.

Not thirty feet away was the most gorgeous being she had ever laid her eyes on. Tall, lean, and conveying an aura of authority, the man—could a human possibly be so handsome?—was watching the troops, muscular arms folded across his chest. His hair was long, falling to his forearms, and golden like that of her own people.

Gúthwyn stared at him, her heart slowly recovering to a weak thud, wanting for him to turn towards her so she could look into his eyes. As though he could read her mind, or as if he felt her gaze upon him, he turned around and saw her.

"There he is," an Uruk said behind her, and Gúthwyn realized with a start that the man was walking over towards them. Nervous butterflies took flight within her stomach. She could see his eyes now, piercing blue, perhaps the color of the distant seas she had heard about.

Now he had stopped right in front of them, his eyes fixed on Gúthwyn and the children. "Leave her with me," he told the Uruks, and for an instant she saw a gleam in his eye. "I will take care of this."

Gúthwyn frowned in puzzlement. This man was dispensing orders to creatures of Mordor. Did that mean he was as horrid as, or worse than, them? The Uruks were already dispersing, leaving the four of them alone together.

All of her fears were put to rest when the man glanced at her and smiled. "I did not know that you had children," he said.

Gúthwyn looked at Hammel and Haiweth, both of whom were gazing up at the man in awe. "They are not mine," she answered, her heart hammering in her chest. "I have been taking care of them." She did not speak of their parents' deaths, for it was not her wish to sadden them.

He nodded, and suddenly Gúthwyn was aware of just how blue his eyes were. "I was told to expect just a woman, so forgive me."

"It is alright," Gúthwyn assured him. He smiled once more.

"What is your name?" he asked, moving a little closer.

"I am Gúthwyn, and here are Hammel and Haiweth." Gúthwyn pointed to each of the children in turn.

"In other circumstances, I would be pleased to meet you," the man spoke. Gúthwyn frowned.

"I do not know why I am here, to be honest," she told him. "I cannot see how I will survive."

The man's eyes were concerned. "I was surprised to learn of your coming," he said. "But you come across as strong-willed."

Gúthwyn blushed and looked down.

"I will bring you to your tent. Borogor, my second-in-command, has some room."

"Your second-in-command?" Gúthwyn queried. "But that would make you—"

"I have been luckier than some," the man allowed quietly. "Now, come with me. The children may remain with you."

"Thank you so much," Gúthwyn responded, greatly relieved. The man smiled at her again before starting to walk, motioning for her to follow. She trailed after him as he led her along the training grounds, keeping up the conversation as well.

"You will train here every day, from sunrise to sunset, with a brief break at lunch." He gestured towards the practicing men. "I will be honest with you in saying that some do not survive the first few days. But I am certain that your fate lies elsewhere."

Fate or no, Gúthwyn still gulped nervously at his words. "How do they train?"

"In the morning, they work with the bow. In the afternoon, they practice with swords for a time, and then they spar with wooden ones."

Gúthwyn nodded, listening so intently that she almost did not notice when the man stopped before one of the larger tents. Pulling back the flap, he strode into it, motioning for Gúthwyn to follow. "Borogor!" he called as he did so.

Coming in behind him, Gúthwyn was surprised to see that the living conditions in the tent were almost better than in Isengard. The bedding was poor, with each of the several pallets equipped with thin blankets and lumpy rags for pillows, but there was definitely more space within.

The one man inside had stood up, looking not at the man but at Gúthwyn and the children. His eyebrows were slightly raised. "I thought we were only receiving one," he spoke, his warm brown eyes narrowed in confusion. Gúthwyn thought that, in appearance, he was akin to the Gondorians: Dark hair, just above shoulder-length; a tall, muscular build (though more solid than his leader)—Gúthwyn liked him immediately. His voice certainly did not seem harsh.

"As did I, but she is taking care of them," the man answered. "I am going to return to the training grounds. See that she knows how things work around here. Borogor, I expect you to be practicing in two hours. She may accompany you if she wishes."

With that, he met Gúthwyn's eyes for the briefest instant before exiting the tent. It was not until he was gone that she realized he had never given his name.


	24. Warnings

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Three:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. In the case of Hammel, I just made it up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Twenty-Three**

As the man left the tent, Gúthwyn looked at Borogor. "Who was he?" she asked, wanting every piece of information she could gather.

"Haldor," Borogor answered at once, glancing at her strangely. She saw his eyes flicker over the mangled mess that was the Warg bite, and blushed. "All of the humans in Udûn are under his command."

"How long has he been here?" Gúthwyn continued, her curiosity piqued, unconsciously putting her hand on her cheek.

"Well over a thousand years," Borogor responded, sitting back down on his sleeping pallet and leaning against the tent wall. When she stared at him in utter shock, he elucidated. "He is an Elf."

This knowledge only made Gúthwyn more confused. Elves, she thought, lived in vast woods, far removed from humans. "How is he here, then?"

Borogor shrugged. "Captured long ago, I suppose." For some reason, Gúthwyn got the impression that he did not enjoy this topic.

"Sorry," she said, flushing.

He looked back at her with kind eyes. "There is no need to apologize. You can choose a sleeping pallet for yourself and the children. Space is limited here, but better than most tents."

Gúthwyn realized she had not introduced herself properly. After thanking him, she added, "My name is Gúthwyn. This is Haiweth"—she pointed to the girl, who was wandering around the tent with a curious expression on her face—"and Hammel." Hammel was following Haiweth around, seeming too cautious to touch anything.

Borogor gave a small wave to them, yet his eyes were narrowed.

"What is it?" Gúthwyn asked.

Borogor shook his head sadly. "This is no place for children," he replied.

Gúthwyn nodded. She did not want to have to think about what she may have brought them into. Turning away, she located two sleeping pallets in the far corner. "Hammel, Haiweth," she called. The children made their way over to her. "This is our spot, do you understand? We will sleep here." To emphasize her point, she took off her cloak and put it down. Hammel nodded in understanding, but it was difficult for Gúthwyn to tell if Haiweth got it.

"Haldor wished for me to explain some things to you," Borogor spoke when she had finished. Gúthwyn rose and moved back towards him, keeping an eye on the children. "Do you know anything about Mordor?"

"Haldor told me the training schedule," Gúthwyn answered, recalling every word the Elf—she still was having trouble believing it—had spoken to her. "He was kind to me."

A wary look came over Borogor's face. "Gúthwyn, might I tell you something about Haldor?"

"Of course," Gúthwyn replied, leaning forward slightly.

Borogor frowned. "He seems to have made an exception to you, but most would not consider him very kind at all. He has a harsh way of running things."

Gúthwyn mentally shook her head, trying to match Borogor's words with the sympathetic, noble Elf she had met just minutes ago.

Looking rather uncomfortable, Borogor changed the topic. "You will see more of him, no doubt. Then you can form your own opinion. But in the meantime, I have some more words of caution."

Gúthwyn sighed in dismay. "More?" she asked.

Borogor nodded, his face serious. "Gúthwyn, most of these men… have not seen a woman for several years."

Her face paled slightly. "There are no women here, then?"

"No," Borogor answered. "All women and children are south of this area, tending to the crops around the Sea of Nûrnen. It is where all of our food comes from. You alone of them have been sent here—not as a spoil of war, but as a soldier—and you would be foolish not to expect trouble."

"What of the children?" Gúthwyn pressed him, growing more anxious by the second. "How can I protect them?"

"I will help you there," Borogor said. "It is my guess that they will be given simple tasks, such as giving water to the men. I will see to it that no one harms them."

"A thousand thanks," Gúthwyn said, relieved.

"As for you…" Borogor paused, frowning. "Gúthwyn, I would recommend going nowhere by yourself in this place. Nor just with the children. I cannot stay with you the entire time, but my brother would be willing to escort you, should you need to go someplace."

Gúthwyn did not like this at all. "I would go where I please, with whom I please, if anyone," she told him.

Borogor opened his mouth to say something, but just then the tent flap opened, and a tall, black-haired man walked in. "My lord, you are needed at the—" He stopped when he saw Gúthwyn, his mouth opening slightly in surprise.

"Lumren, this is Gúthwyn. Gúthwyn, Lumren." Borogor made the introductions, but Lumren was not paying much attention.

"Gúthwyn, eh?" he asked, his eyes raking her body thoroughly. She flushed, and then glared at him. Undaunted, even laughing slightly, he took a step forward, so that they were but five feet apart. "Where did you catch this one, Borogor?" Leering at her, he added, "Are you keeping her for yourself? She is nice and young…"

Gúthwyn's eyes flashed in fury and humiliation. "I belong to no one," she spat out.

Lumren took another step forward before Borogor intervened. "Peace," he said, raising his hand. "Lumren, she is to become part of the army."

The man was still for a moment before he broke out into a fit of laughter. "A woman? Surely you jest."

"No," Borogor said quietly. "And I would suggest watching your mouth, understand?"

Lumren stopped chuckling and looked at Borogor. "As you wish, _my lord_," he answered mockingly, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

"What was it you wished to tell me?" Borogor asked evenly.

"Haldor was called to the Morannon. You are to train the men now," Lumren said.

"I will be there in a moment," Borogor said, making it clear that he wanted the other man to leave.

Lumren sneered at Gúthwyn one last time before opening the flap. He was about to leave the tent when he stopped again: He had seen the children.

"Keep walking," Borogor ordered. Gúthwyn moved forwards.

Lumren merely grinned.

"Do you see what I mean?" Borogor asked as Lumren left.

"He was one person," Gúthwyn argued, but she could still feel Lumren's crude gaze on her. It had bothered her more than she cared to admit.

Borogor shook his head. "You have much to learn. Lumren is not the worst human in Mordor."

Gúthwyn did not want to believe him. "You are nothing like him," she argued.

"Come with me," Borogor said, standing up abruptly. "I will take you to the training grounds."

She stood up as well. "What of the children?"

"They can go with you," Borogor told her, "and start working. Do you have any experience with swords?"

"Some," Gúthwyn allowed. "It has not been a very proper education." A soft smile came to her face as she thought of Cobryn and Lebryn's fantastic duels, and then disappeared as she recalled her own clashes with Chalibeth.

"Are you alright?" Borogor questioned, looking at her closely.

"Yes, I am fine," Gúthwyn said, banishing the memories away. "Hammel, Haiweth," she called to the children. "We are going for a walk."

Haiweth bounced over to her, followed by Hammel's slower gait. "Walk?" she asked.

Something occurred to Gúthwyn, and she shot a questioning look over at Borogor. "How can she be expected to work? She can barely walk!"

"It is either work or death, Gúthwyn," Borogor said pityingly.

Suddenly feeling sick, she sat down and buried her face in her hands. _What have I done?_ she cried out at herself. Everything about this place was horrible for the growth of a child. No women around, no playtime; just cruel men and hard toil without respite.

A gentle hand was placed on her arm. "Do not despair," Borogor told her. "I will make sure they are not harmed."

Gúthwyn looked up at him, not knowing how he would manage to do that.

"Trust me."

At length she nodded. Taking his hand, she allowed him to pull her up.

"Now we shall go," Borogor said. Gúthwyn kept a firm grip on the children as they left the tent. The air was hot and uncomfortable.

"What would you have me do?" Gúthwyn asked of him while they walked, not sure if he wanted her to immediately begin training or to watch for a time.

"After I address the troops, I will get you started," Borogor informed her. "The children will receive water buckets, with which they will walk along the training grounds and offer to the men."

"How can you be so sure that no one will harm them?" Gúthwyn asked nervously.

"Do not worry," Borogor merely said.

They arrived at the training grounds. Gúthwyn noticed that the temperature was even more unbearable here. Now that she could see the men closer, she was able to make out rivulets of sweat pouring down their body, to hear their grunts and groans of pain. Shuddering, she realized that she would soon be one of them.

Motioning for her to follow, Borogor stepped up onto a slightly raised wooden platform. There was another man on it who clutched a great white horn. He gaped at Gúthwyn and the children for a full minute before Borogor stepped between the two of them. It was then that the man recovered and began blowing—two loud, ringing shots that nearly tore Gúthwyn's ears off.

Instantly, the training men stopped what they were doing and began making their way towards the platform. Several of them were rubbing their eyes as they came nearer, not sure if the sight of Gúthwyn and the children was a mirage. Further into the crowd, she espied a large group of heavily clothed men, all wearing colors such as deep red and dull yellow. Their eyes were narrowed at her.

Gúthwyn glanced at Borogor, a little anxious at the sight of so many people standing before them. As they kept arriving, packing against each other, she became aware of just how many there were. They stretched back almost as far as she could see.

"Soldiers!" Borogor called, raising his arm for silence. "By now, you will have noticed the new arrivals."

Several snickers from the front few rows suggested that, indeed, they had noticed. Not one of them was looking at Borogor.

"And I am telling you now: If I hear of them being given any trouble, I will make such an example of the offender that none of you will want to go near them again!" Borogor stepped forward, and Gúthwyn was shocked at how menacing he appeared to become with that one action. His eyes were blazing and one of his fists was curled around the hilt of his sword.

As the message was relayed to those further away, Gúthwyn heard the mutterings increase. However, none of the soldiers seemed as though they wished to dispute Borogor's word.

Satisfied that all had heard his warning, Borogor shouted, "You may resume training now!" Gúthwyn looked at him gratefully as the warriors began dispersing, many of them shooting glances over their shoulders.

"Thank you," she said, "thank you so much."

"Just watch out for the Easterlings," Borogor advised her, hopping easily off the platform. Gúthwyn followed him, holding out her hands to help the children down.

"The Easterlings?"

"You may have noticed them. They are from the far East, and completely cover themselves in thick garb."

Gúthwyn nodded in understanding. "They were not very—"

"Borogor!" A call from behind cut her off. Turning around, they saw a young man approaching them. The structure of his face was similar to Borogor's, yet softer and more innocent. His hair was a lighter shade, but Gúthwyn thought they must be related.

"Beregil," Borogor spoke, a smile on his face. "Gúthwyn, this is my brother," he said as he clasped hands with the younger man. "Beregil, this is Gúthwyn. The children are Hammel and Haiweth."

Beregil was not adept at concealing his curiosity. In fact, Gúthwyn quickly garnered the impression that this man wore his emotions openly upon his sleeve; yet his were kind, boyish, and caring.

"Hello, Beregil," Gúthwyn said, taking to him instantly. It was hard to believe that there were such people at Mordor. She had thought that everyone would be cruel, harsh, and terrible, yet already Haldor, Borogor, and Beregil had treated her compassionately.

"Welcome," Beregil responded, smiling.

"Beregil, have you seen Nengar?" Borogor questioned.

Beregil shook his head. "He is probably sulking because it is his turn to carry the water."

"Find him for me, will you? The children are going to be taking his job."

"I am not sure whether he will be insulted or relieved," Beregil said, an amused expression on his face.

As his brother walked away, Borogor turned back to Gúthwyn. "You will practice with him at first, so I have an idea of your skill level."

"Alright," Gúthwyn said, and then looked at the children. Haiweth was staring all around her, her mouth slightly open and her eyes wide. Hammel's gaze was guarded, nearly expressionless as he looked at his surroundings. "Hammel?" she asked.

The boy glanced up at her.

"You and Haiweth are going to bring water to the soldiers, do you understand?"

Hammel nodded his head once, his face wooden but his eyes showing comprehension.

"Will you help Haiweth?"

She received another nod. Over the past week, she had come to realize that Hammel did not speak much—however, she had a feeling that he took in a lot more than anyone thought.

"Thank you," Gúthwyn said. Turning to Borogor, she asked him, "Why did you tell me to beware of the Easterlings?"

A crease appeared in his forehead. "They are a cruel people. I do not understand them much, but they have been responsible for the most deaths in Udûn thus far. Petty arguments, mainly about who won the last sparring round, yet they become riled enough to slay each other over it. They barely treat me with respect as it is, so I daresay you can expect trouble from them."

Gúthwyn recalled their malignant eyes, and did not doubt him.


	25. Haldor

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Four:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. In the case of Hammel, I just made it up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Twenty-Four**

The sun was high overhead as Gúthwyn clashed her sword against Beregil's, blocking his strike and leaping back to avoid the retaliatory blow. Beads of sweat were streaming down her face, soaking the cloth headband she had wrapped around her head. The air was thick and unbearably hot, adding to her discomfort. She had been training with Beregil for almost four hours now, and she was swiftly tiring.

She and the children had been in Mordor for nearly two weeks. During this time, she had found herself more physically taxed than ever before, even compared to the hellish journey to the Black Land. Then, she had only needed to concentrate on placing one foot in front of the other. Her first full day, she had gone for nearly twelve hours of brutal training with only a short break for lunch. By the time the sky was dark, she was incapable of walking.

A flush crept up on her already red cheeks as she remember how Borogor had had to carry her back to the tent, much to the amusement of its other inhabitants. Beregil had taken care of the children, who were as worn out (if not more) than her. The next morning, Borogor had told her that she need not feel embarrassed, as many men had perished their first day, but it still had not made the incident any less mortifying.

Propelled by anger at herself, Gúthwyn lunged forward and swung a powerful stroke at Beregil, catching him off guard and causing him to stumble. They were at equal skill level, something which had surprised Borogor at first. She, herself, had not thought that she would do so well when her only expertise had been with sticks.

"Good," Beregil gasped, holding up his hand just as a loud horn rang out.

Instantly, the practicing soldiers abandoned their training. On the hotter days, they were granted ten-minute breaks every three hours, something that Gúthwyn was immensely grateful for.

Borogor, who had been watching their skirmish, now came up to them. "Gúthwyn, I just saw the children about a hundred or so yards away," he told her, pointing to the left. "Excellent job; you have really been improving."

"Thank you," Gúthwyn replied, wiping her head as she espied Hammel and Haiweth. "I will be right back," she told the two brothers, then set off to retrieve the children.

On the way, she passed a cluster of Easterlings. They were joined by Lumren, whom she was now suspecting to be an Easterling as well. The man had said nothing to her that was not rude or derogatory. He frequently stared at her as though she wore no clothing, something that she was finding increasingly hard to brush off.

As if reading her mind, Lumren glanced over and saw her. "How is the little maiden today? Not collapsing again, are we?" he jeered, generating harsh laughter among his companions. Gúthwyn did not respond, but every inch of her body was burning with anger and shame.

Their mirth echoed after her as she walked faster, hoping to leave them behind as soon as she was able. Hammel and Haiweth were only a few yards away, still clutching their water buckets and ladles. Every day they moved along the entire training space, Hammel carrying the buckets and Haiweth offering the water. To Gúthwyn's immense relief, most of the warriors had heeded Borogor's words and avoided heckling the children. But some uttered crude jokes, ones that were understandable by all but their target. Lumren was one of these.

Haiweth it was who saw her first. "Gút'wyn!" she cried, running awkwardly over to the young woman. "Gút'wyn!"

Gúthwyn bent down and scooped the child up in her arms, hugging her tightly. "How was your day?" she asked. Haiweth beamed, not taking in a word.

"Good," Hammel answered, coming up to her and holding onto her pants leg. Gúthwyn freed one of her hands and extended it down to him, smiling when he took it. Exhaustion, Lumren, and the Easterlings aside, she hardly felt like she was living in the land of the Dark Lord. The sky might have been nearly dark all the time, and there was never a moment of peace with the racket the Orcs always made—the enormous Barad-dûr was visible from all directions, along with it an unsettling red light; yet the children were happy and therefore so was she.

She began walking back to where Borogor and Beregil were, determinedly looking anywhere but at the Easterlings and Lumren. She could hear muttered jests and their accompanying chuckles, but she refused to give even a glance in their directions. There was one thing that made the job easier: The sudden appearance of Haldor.

She had only seen him a few times since her first day, but she had thought about him nearly every hour. He had helped her with the basics of archery on her second day; even when she missed the target by several feet, he would give her useful tips and techniques. It was near impossible for her to forget the touch of his hands on her arms, gently moving them into place.

For some reason, whenever she happened to see Borogor, he was always looking at the two of them with an odd expression on his face. It was not anger, nor was it sadness; it was almost worry, but she could not understand why. As a matter of fact, all thinking was difficult when the Elf's bluer than blue eyes fell upon her. For the first time in her life, she might have been in love.

Almost without noticing, she had begun walking faster, eager to reach Haldor. His back was to her, as he was speaking with Borogor; Borogor did not look happy about something. Beregil was watching them with a worried expression on his face.

Just then, Borogor caught sight of Gúthwyn coming towards them with the children. The second his eyes moved elsewhere from Haldor, the Elf became aware of the attention shift and swiveled around. His face stretched into a grin. "Gúthwyn, how are you?"

"Good, thank you," Gúthwyn said with a blush, inwardly cursing herself for her lack of conversational skills.

"Borogor was telling me that your swordsmanship exceeds all expectations," Haldor continued, glancing at her keenly.

Gúthwyn smiled softly. "He exaggerates," she told him. "I have merely had some lessons, albeit brief and jumbled, before."

"Just think, then, of what a few more will do," Haldor said. Borogor's eyes narrowed slightly. "And how are the children?" the Elf asked, looking down at Hammel and Haiweth. "I hope they are not doing too much."

"They are fine," Gúthwyn responded. A week ago, if someone had told her that not all of Sauron's servants were evil, she would have thought them mad. But here was living proof of the contrary. It was surprising, and a little bit unsettling. Then again, everything about her life had been unsettled lately.

Just then, the horn sounded again. Gúthwyn winced at its harsh, abrasive tone. Nothing was gentle in this place.

"Are you going to be staying?" she heard herself asking Haldor.

He nodded. "Borogor, are you ready for some sparring?"

Was it Gúthwyn's imagination, or did Borogor suddenly look tense? "Of course," he said, his left hand drifting to his right arm.

"Behave yourselves," Gúthwyn said to Hammel and Haiweth, giving both of them a pat on the back as she stood up. Haiweth gave her a toothy grin, then tugged at Hammel's hand.

"Move," she whined. Hammel waved forlornly at Gúthwyn, trotting off behind his bouncy sister. Gúthwyn smiled to see the two of them together.

"Come, Gúthwyn," Beregil said, tapping her on the shoulder. "If we get close enough to my brother and Haldor, we may watch them spar."

Gúthwyn felt a thrill of excitement. "I have never seen either of them practice," she commented.

"Borogor usually gets up early," Beregil told her. "Though sometimes he stays late at night. No one really knows what Haldor does."

Gúthwyn memorized this as she retrieved her sword from where she had left it on the ground. It was not actually hers; otherwise she would have been far more careful with it. The blade was of horrible make, just something that Orkish smiths threw together in the forgeries of Barad-dûr. Every week or so new ones were shipped out to Udûn.

As she picked up the sword, she glanced at the Eye on her wrist and suppressed a shudder. Even after it had stopped searing and faded into a dull brown color, she still felt as though it were a flaming red. Sometimes she could feel a prickling originating from it, like a many-legged creature was sprouting from the eye and crawling around on it. She despised the mark and everything it stood for.

"Are you ready?" Beregil asked her, yanking her from her thoughts.

"Sorry," she apologized, standing up and turning to face him. "Yes, I am."

Five minutes later, however, in which each had successfully disarmed the other, an exclamation from Beregil alerted her to Borogor and Haldor. They had just begun.

For a moment, the two circled each other. Gúthwyn always preferred to let the other person come to her, to make them expend their energy first. In one of their conversations, Borogor told her that he believed the same thing. "But the key," he had said, "is to have a stronger will than your opponent. If they are intimidated by you, they will strike first."

It was very clear from the beginning that Haldor was, in no way or form, intimidated by Borogor. He had a deadly calm air about him, as though he could effortlessly defeat even the most accomplished without even breaking a sweat; whereas Borogor seemed to have picked up the sword knowing that he was going to lose.

When Borogor finally lunged at Haldor, the Elf seemed to barely move his sword. However, his block sent Borogor's arm flying in the opposite direction. Borogor instantly brought it back, just in time to fend off a powerful thrust from Haldor. He was forced backwards a few steps, the Elf pushing him away with ease. For a moment, Haldor's blue eyes chilled her. They were blazing with an intensity she had never seen before.

The duel lasted not three minutes before Haldor got under Borogor's guard, placing the sword tip at his neck almost before the Man was aware of it. A small drop of blood formed.

"Quick, back to work," Beregil hissed, and reluctantly Gúthwyn turned to face him again.

"Haldor was amazing," she breathed, as they both held up their swords.

"So is Borogor," Beregil answered, open admiration on his face. "If I could fight like him…"

But as the two of them began practicing, Gúthwyn could only think of Haldor. His skill surpassed all that she had ever seen, even that of Cobryn. All of his strokes seemed to take no effort at all, and his footwork was unbelievable.

"Gúthwyn!"

Gúthwyn snapped herself out of her thoughts to find Beregil's sword not two inches from her neck. "Sorry," she said, blushing. _Now is not the place to think of Haldor,_ she told herself.

"You have been elsewhere for the past minute," he said, drawing back his blade as they prepared to start again.

She felt herself going red again. "Sorry," she repeated, hoping against hope that Haldor had not noticed her actions. She chanced a quick glimpse over in the Elf's direction. No such luck: He was watching her.

To her surprise, however, he was not laughing; he gave her a small wave and then resumed talking to Borogor, whose face was inexplicably cloudy. Gúthwyn waved back before turning to Beregil, who was shaking his head. "What?" she asked, giving him a curious look.

"Would you like to practice now?" he questioned, though he did not seem much annoyed with her.

"Sorry," Gúthwyn spoke again. "I am ready."

A few hours later, the training grounds were too dark for the warriors to continue. The only things visible were the thousand prickling lights from the Towers of the Teeth and the Morannon; they seemed to magnify the blackness, rather than lessen it. Finally, there was that strange red glare from the faraway Barad-dûr, which Gúthwyn had never found out the nature of.

She began following Beregil towards Borogor, as the three of them and the children walked together back to their tent in the evenings. As much as she had not wanted to listen to Borogor's warning about never going anywhere by herself, she had to admit that she felt safe with the two brothers.

Suddenly someone stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. She felt a twinge of fear. "Excuse me," she said, attempting to walk around him. She could not see his face.

"Gúthwyn," he spoke, and Gúthwyn realized that it was Haldor. She gave a nervous laugh.

"I did not know who you were," she said. "It was too dark."

"Should I feel insulted?" he asked. Just then a large group of people passed by, jostling Gúthwyn in the process. Gently, Haldor put his arm around her and guided her away from them. It was lucky it was so dark; otherwise, her face would have had the color of a shining ruby.

"No," she answered, feeling regretful as he let go of her.

"Good," Haldor said. "Now, where are the children?"

"Give me a second," Gúthwyn told him, stepping away a little bit. Raising her hands to her mouth, she gave a piercing call. "Hammel! Haiweth!"

Haldor was silent, his golden hair turned dark by the night. Within a few minutes, Gúthwyn could make out the outlines of the children bobbing over towards her. "I swear, they can see in the dark," she muttered.

"Maybe," Haldor responded seriously. She turned to look at him. "I could identify you from any distance," he added.

For about the hundredth time that day, her cheeks flushed crimson red. What was it about this Elf that made her so weak?

Just then, a man came up to her. "Gúthwyn?" he asked. It was Borogor.

"Yes, it is I," she answered, squinting up at him.

"I have been looking for you," he responded. "Are you ready to go back?"

"As a matter of fact," Haldor interjected, "I was hoping she would walk with me for a little."

Gúthwyn's heart leaped into the air, dancing with the wind.

"I see," Borogor replied slowly, his voice suddenly wooden. "Gúthwyn, I will take the children back if you wish."

Gúthwyn hesitated. As much as she would love to spend some time with Haldor, she did not want to leave the children, even if they were in Borogor's trustworthy and capable hands.

"No, it is fine, they may come," Haldor said. "I have not gotten to know them yet."

"You do not mind?" Gúthwyn asked the Elf, rather surprised.

Borogor seemed taken aback as well. "It is really no trouble," he said.

Gúthwyn made her decision. Though she appreciated Borogor's offer, she really did not wish to be separated from the children more than was necessary. "Thank you, Borogor," she told the man, "but I would feel better with them with me."

Borogor shrugged. In the dark she could not read his expression. "As you wish," he responded. "I will see you soon, then?"

"We shall not take long," Haldor spoke.

It was then that the children finally arrived. Gúthwyn bent down to pick Haiweth up, swinging her around for a bit before placing her on her hip. "We are going for a walk tonight," she informed the two of them. "With Haldor."

"Haddor?" Haiweth repeated.

"Haldor," Hammel said quietly.

It was one of the few words he had spoken since he and his sister were first captured. "Yes," Gúthwyn confirmed, reaching forward to take his hand.

"Let me," Haldor offered. "You already have one of them."

"Are you sure?" Gúthwyn asked, marveling at how kind the Elf was.

Haldor said nothing, yet clasped Hammel's hand in his. Hammel was silent as well.

They began walking around the training grounds, using the distant lights to see where they were going. Gúthwyn herself was not able to make out much, but Haldor seemed to know where they were. At one point, she stumbled; for the second time that night, the Elf put his arm around her and helped her along. "Does this bother you?" he questioned after a few moments.

"No," Gúthwyn answered, feeling perfectly at ease. Haiweth was already falling asleep.

"How is he doing?" she asked Haldor, unable to see Hammel.

"He is fine," Haldor responded. Gúthwyn smiled.

For a time, no words were exchanged. She could not begin to describe how happy she was. Just the mere sight of Haldor was enough to make her day. The only thing that bothered her was Borogor's unhappiness. _I will ask him about it when we come back,_ she decided.

"Do you mind if I ask you something?" Haldor broke the silence, squeezing gently on her shoulder. She felt as though she would melt.

"Go ahead," she invited him.

"How is it that you came to be here?"

Gúthwyn stopped, cringing on the inside. She was not sure if she was ready to tell the tale.

"If it discomforts you, you need not say anything," Haldor said, picking up instantly on her unease.

She debated with herself. It would be a relief to be able to talk to someone about her fears and doubts, yet she did not know if he would scorn her or be uninterested. Telling the story would be like placing herself before him for his judgment, and she was unsure whether she wished to hear the verdict.

At length, one side won out. "How much time do we have?" she asked, looking at Haiweth and rocking her gently. The child was asleep, her head resting on Gúthwyn's shoulder.

"As long as you need," he responded.

For the next half hour, while they walked along the training grounds, she told him everything that had happened since her half birthday, except for one thing: Her relation to the King of Rohan. She had long ago learned to keep that part of her secret. But all else that she knew she now told the Elf—the other slaves, Gríma Wormtongue, the Wargs, Chalibeth's death.

When she got there, when she was recounting the outbreak of Wargs, she arrived at the sight of Chalibeth lying spread-eagled on the ground and could not go any further. Her voice faltered, and to her horror she found herself struggling to hold back tears.

Haldor, who had been listening quietly up until now, spoke soothingly. "You do not have to go on. I would not want you to cry."

Gúthwyn shook her head vigorously. "No," she managed to get out. Rapidly blinking her eyes, she struggled to bring herself under control. It took several moments, but eventually she had calmed down enough to finish telling the story.

When she was recounting the days spent in the cage—the girl, the voices inside her head—feeling rather sick as she did so, Haldor held her tightly. "I am sorry," he said. "I should have brought a torch. Are you still afraid of the dark?"

"Not with you," Gúthwyn answered, wondering at her boldness. Haldor did not say anything.

They had gone around the training grounds by this point, and were now doubling back to return for the night. The clusters of tents were coming closer as Gúthwyn now recalled the last pieces of her tale: Her horrible dream of Éowyn's death, the journey with the Uruks, finding the children. Haiweth was still asleep in her arms.

When she had at last finished, when she could go on no further, Gúthwyn heaved a great sigh. "Is Hammel still awake?" she asked Haldor.

"Barely," the Elf responded, then looked back at her. "As horrible as it may seem, I am surprised that you have survived so far."

"As am I," Gúthwyn agreed, shivering slightly. "Pure luck, I suppose." It was chilling to think of how many times she might have perished already.

Once again Haldor was silent, but he held her tightly all the way back to the camp. Their faces were within inches of each other, something Gúthwyn was very conscious of. "It has been a pleasure to speak with you," he said as they came to her tent, "though I am sorry for your sadness. If there is anything I can do…"

"Thank you for listening," Gúthwyn told him earnestly, taking Hammel in her hand. "I appreciate it."

Haldor inclined his head. "Good night."

"Good night," she replied, then ducked into the tent.

Inside, everyone was asleep except for Borogor. He was sharpening his sword by the light of a small candle. "I was getting nervous," he said, a small frown on his face. "Are you alright?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered, looking at him curiously before moving over to the two sleeping pallets she and the children used. She laid Haiweth down carefully, stroking the girl's hair. Hammel was barely able to move; the instant he lowered himself to the pallet, his breathing slowed. She smiled before asking, "Why would I not be?"

Borogor seemed uneasy. "Never mind," he said. "I just thought… Well, it is nothing."

Gúthwyn stood up. Walking to stand before him, she crossed her arms over her chest. "Borogor, what is it?" she asked. "You have been in a foul mood for almost the entire day. Please, if it is something I did, let me know so I can fix it."

He sat up straighter, appearing as though he were debating whether or not to tell her. "I was merely worried about you," he eventually said, heaving a sigh.

"You did not have to be," she told him. "I was with Haldor, remember?"

Borogor's expression hardened at the mention of the Elf.

"What?" Gúthwyn pressed. "You told me earlier that he was a harsh person, but he is nothing of the sort. He listens to me, and does not judge me. Why, then, must I be careful around him?"

For a moment, Borogor's eyes darkened; she took a step backwards, suddenly afraid. But then the next instant she thought she had imagined it, for he seemed more tired than ever. "Gúthwyn, just forget I said anything. You should get some rest."

She repressed the urge to groan in frustration. "Borogor, will you not let me know what is going on?"

"It is nothing," Borogor answered, in a tone of voice that brooked no room for argument. Gúthwyn fell silent. "Please, go to sleep. You will need it for tomorrow."

"Right," she said dully, and turned away without another word. Her fists were clenched in annoyance. What was it that he was not telling her? She did not even know if she believed him about Haldor. Surely if it was something horrible, he would have cautioned her with clearer words.

Nevertheless, her night had been spoiled by Borogor's cryptic warning. She lay down on her pallet, wrapping a protective arm around the children, still mulling over their conversation. What was it that bothered him so?

The sound of Borogor blowing the candle out came just before the darkness. She tensed, wishing that she were still outside with Haldor. Even now she could feel the warmth of his arm around her. Try as she might to suppress them, images kept floating to her mind of kissing him. Her body was no longer tense from fear.

_If only…_ she thought. _But he is an Elf, and I am a Human. _She imagined that he only saw her as a companion, no matter how much she wanted to be something more. These emotions both excited and scared her. Never before had she been in love with someone—to find herself falling head over heels was unnerving.

"Gúthwyn?"

It was Hammel. Opening her eyes, she looked over at the boy. In the darkness, she could just make out his eyes. "What are you doing awake?" she whispered. "You should be asleep."

"My hand hurts," he said, stretching it over the sleeping Haiweth for her inspection. She took it; there were no cuts or bumps that she could feel.

"Do you remember doing anything to it?" she questioned.

"Haldor had it," Hammel answered.

"Yes," Gúthwyn agreed, "but what made it hurt?"

"Haldor had it," Hammel repeated.

Gúthwyn sighed. "I know, Hammel."

"It hurts," the boy added.

"Maybe when you wake up it will feel better," Gúthwyn suggested. Her body was gradually beginning to shut down for the night.

"No."

Gúthwyn paused. There was something in his tone that frightened her, for reasons she could not explain. "Hammel?"

Yet there was only steady breathing. He was fast asleep, his little hand still in hers.

Shortly after, Gúthwyn's chest was rising and falling with a calm rhythm. At the other end of the tent, Borogor listened to the sounds of her inhaling and exhaling, his heart telling of dark times to come.


	26. A Sudden Change

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Five:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. In the case of Hammel, I just made it up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Twenty-Five**

Over the next couple of weeks, Gúthwyn was finding it increasingly hard to believe that she was in Mordor, the Black Land that was spoken of in hushed voices in dark corners. Though there was never a moment of peace, and the air was always unbearably hot and dry, she could honestly say she was no worse than at Isengard.

For one thing, Haldor was finding nearly every possible opportunity to be with her. If he was overseeing the archery, he always took the time to help her, as she had immense difficulties managing the bow. However, under his tutelage, she was soon able to hit the target nearly every time. She had yet to strike the center, but she was confident that it would happen in the near future.

In addition, taking care of two children was more enjoyable than she ever would have thought. Just the mere sight of Haiweth prancing around the training grounds, a solemn Hammel trailing along after her, was enough to bring a broad smile to her face. Occasionally she worried, for she knew that some men (namely, the Easterlings) were cruel, but none of them seemed to want to disobey Borogor's orders.

There was, however, one thing that she could not get used to about Mordor. It was the food. Every day they were given the same meat, over and over again: disgusting-looking, completely unidentifiable, and absolutely rancid in taste. Hammel and Haiweth were able to adapt to it easily enough, but it was rare that Gúthwyn was able to keep it down for more than half an hour. She tried, but the longer she held it in the more her stomach hurt. After nearly a week of this, she had been able to keep small amounts down, but anything larger than a tiny meal was enough to send her retching.

She had kept her vomiting a secret, difficult though it was, for she did not want to appear as weak—especially to Borogor or Haldor. It would surprise her if Borogor had not noticed something off about her, but he never chose to press the issue. If truth was to be told, he had become increasingly withdrawn from her as the month went on. She could not explain it, and he would not; therefore, she began spending more and more time with the children and Haldor.

And so her life was passing, until one day she realized that a little over a month had passed. Training had just ended for the night, and she was attempting to find the children. She had called for them once already, but they had not come. She was growing increasingly nervous as the minutes went on.

"Hammel! Haiweth!" she finally called again, staring through the darkness anxiously. _Please let nothing have happened to them,_ she begged silently, feeling the beginnings of panic come over her. "Hammel! Haiweth!"

"Gúthwyn?" She jumped a little, then turned towards the sound of the voice. It was Haldor.

"Haldor, I cannot find the children!" she cried, slightly hysterical. "What if they are hurt? What if someone took them? What if—"

"Gúthwyn, do not worry," Haldor said, placing his hands on her shoulders to steady her. "I saw them not two minutes ago. No harm has come to them."

"What if it has?" she asked, her breathing becoming shallow. "I will never forgive myself if—"

"Gúthwyn!" Borogor's shout echoed across the grounds. She thought she could see his shadowy silhouette far away. Her heart leaped as she saw two small shapes beside him. Was it possible? "Gúthwyn, I found them!"

She collapsed against Haldor, nearly beginning to cry in relief. He held her tightly, not letting her fall even though her knees were almost giving out. "See? They are fine. Nothing happened to them," he whispered in her ear.

"Gúthwyn, is that—" Borogor's voice, now from only a yard or two away, was cut off. She turned around to see him standing still. "Excuse me, I did not mean to interrupt the two of you," he said. She could see him shifting uncomfortably, holding Haiweth in one arm and Hammel's hand in the other.

"No, no, thank you so much," she breathed, running over to the children. "Where did you find them? Are they hurt?"

Borogor said nothing.

"Borogor?" she asked, glancing up at him. He was staring over her shoulder at Haldor. She had to call his name once again before he looked back at her.

"I am sorry," he apologized. She noticed that his face seemed ashen. "I found them sleeping on the ground. We should go back to the tent now, it is getting late."

Gúthwyn frowned. "Are you feeling alright?" she asked curiously. "You look sick."

"I feel fine," Borogor replied. "I can carry the children back if your arms are too tired."

"As a matter of fact," Haldor interjected quietly, "I was hoping to speak with Gúthwyn in private."

She opened her mouth to say 'yes,' but Borogor beat her. "It is late for that, do you not think?"

Slightly annoyed, Gúthwyn turned to him. "Borogor, it cannot be anywhere close to midnight," she said.

"You have a whole day's worth of training tomorrow," he argued.

"Actually," Haldor responded smoothly, but glancing at Borogor strangely, "tomorrow is our one afternoon off."

Borogor fell silent.

"What is it?" Gúthwyn asked him, unable to keep the anger out of her voice. Haiweth pressed her hands over her ears.

"I am going back," Borogor said finally, his face shadowy. "Do you want me to take the children?"

"Borogor…" Gúthwyn began. His behavior was both frustrating and perplexing. "What is wrong?"

"Nothing," he answered roughly. "Take care." He turned away and started walking towards the tent, his shoulders bowed.

"Wait!" Gúthwyn exclaimed. Borogor stopped and turned back to face her. She ran over to him and said, "I want to say goodnight to Hammel and Haiweth. They will be asleep by the time I get back."

Borogor's face was expressionless as he handed her Haiweth. The child's eyes were blurred with sleep. "Goodnight," Gúthwyn whispered, kissing her on the forehead and hugging her tightly. "When you wake up tomorrow, I will be there."

Haiweth looked at her and yawned. Gúthwyn gave her back to Borogor, then reached out and ruffled Hammel's hair. "Sleep well," she bade him.

"My hand hurts," he said.

"Have Borogor look at it when you get back, alright?"

He nodded. Gúthwyn stood up. "I guess… I will see you soon, then," she told Borogor stiffly.

"Right," Borogor replied. For the life of her, she could not understand the look in his eyes.

She stood watching him walk away until Haldor came up behind her and gently took her hand. "Are you ready?" he asked.

"Yes," she said, nearly melting from his touch before adding, "Do you know what ails him?"

"I cannot say I do," Haldor responded. "Do not worry for him; he is a grown man."

The Elf's advice was easy to follow. Turning to him, she asked, "What was it you wished to speak to me about?"

"Will you come with me to my tent?" he questioned, his blue eyes directly on hers.

Gúthwyn hesitated. His request seemed rather forward, and she was not sure if she wanted to say yes.

"It is the only place we will be able to talk without interruption," Haldor said apologetically. "But if you do not desire to go—"

"No, it is fine," Gúthwyn told him.

With Haldor leading the way, the two of them made their way towards his tent. Even in the dark, Gúthwyn could instantly tell that it was bigger than the others. The structure was against a steep shelf of rock, one of the many that bordered Udûn.

"After you," Haldor said, holding the flap open for her. Gúthwyn thanked him and stepped inside.

"This is enormous," she marveled, looking around in awe. In reality, it was not much bigger than her own room back at Meduseld, but after years of cramped living quarters Haldor's seemed gargantuan to her. The only pieces of furniture were a large bed in the corner and a wooden stand that held all of his armor. The rest of the tent was a wide, open space.

"Please, sit," Haldor invited her, gesturing to the bed. "I am sorry I have no chairs, but they are scarce. I was lucky enough to get to sleep on something other than the ground."

Smiling, Gúthwyn crossed the room and took a seat. "It must be a relief to have this space all to yourself," she commented, her eyes on the rock wall. "What are those?" she asked, squinting.

"Ah," Haldor said, grimacing. "Those chains were here when I first arrived. I have not been able to get them off yet."

He came towards her and sat on the bed as well, keeping a respectful distance away. "So, how have you been?" he inquired seriously. "I am not able to see you as much as I would like."

Touched, Gúthwyn replied, "I am well, thank you. I worry for Hammel and Haiweth, yet anyone who raises children will, no matter what the circumstances are."

"You are doing an excellent job of caring for them," Haldor said.

She blushed, as she always did when he complimented her. "Borogor has been helping me," she confessed, then sighed. "I wish I knew what was wrong with him. He does not seem to like it when I spend time with you."

Haldor looked concerned. "I would not want to ruin your friendship," he told her. "If it helps, I will see you less."

"No," she shook her head. "Each day I look forward to a conversation with you." She suddenly stopped, nervously aware of how bold she had just been.

But Haldor did not seem to mind. He smiled at her, taking her hand once more. "As do I," he replied.

She was not sure when he had moved closer to her, or if she had moved closer to him, but she soon realized they were sitting side by side. "Haldor," she began, blushing, thinking that he might believe her overconfident.

"Say nothing," he whispered, placing a finger over her mouth. Leaning forward, he slid his hands down to her throat, gently pressing his lips to hers.

Gúthwyn responded instantly, reaching her hands up to his face, closing her eyes in utter bliss as she tasted him for the first time. His tongue slid into her mouth, softly brushing up against hers. She heard herself moan quietly as he slid his hands through her hair, all the while putting more weight on her. She arched backwards, allowing him to push her on her back.

Every nerve in her body was exploding as he slid on top of her, his tongue all the while wrestling with hers. Their kisses were growing more intense with each passing second. Gúthwyn felt strange desires taking over her, ones that even she could not begin to understand. She wanted this moment to last forever.

It was then that Haldor pulled away, stroking her hair one last time before separating their lips. Breathing heavily, feeling exhilarated and winded at the same time, Gúthwyn looked up at him and smiled tentatively. "I love you," she whispered, butterflies wheeling about her stomach.

He did not answer, but bent down and kissed her fiercely, causing her to nearly burst with desire. One of his hands left her head and began sliding down her side. The feeling was incredible. Every fiber of her being was screaming for Haldor, for the touch of his body against hers.

Suddenly his hand moved between her legs. Gúthwyn tensed as he began gripping and releasing, sending waves of pleasure throughout her. Even as she arched and writhed under his ministrations, she knew they were moving too fast.

"Haldor," she murmured, extricating her tongue from his and waiting for him to stop. But he never did. His body was pressing too hard on her, forcing the air out of her lungs; his hand was grabbing too tightly and he was not slowing down. "Haldor," she repeated, trying to twist away from him.

He ignored her, recapturing her mouth and jamming his tongue inside, his free hand pushing down on her shoulder. She began to feel as though she were suffocating. Her heart was racing, and it no longer was from excitement.

Finally she raised her hands to his chest and thrust him away from her, drawing her legs together as he looked down at her. "Stop," she said, breathing now difficult. "I am not ready."

The slap seemed to come from thin air, yet she felt the stinging on her cheek and realized that Haldor had hit her. She gasped in shock and recoiled from him, staring up in horror at his eyes. They were blazing with a fire she had never seen before.

"You are ready now," he hissed, and pressed himself on top of her. His hot breath was on her face, making her panic and squirm beneath him. Before she knew what was happening he grabbed at her waist, moving his fingers onto the top of her pants.

Gúthwyn gave a shriek that was muffled by his lips. With a sudden surge of terror, she began kicking and hitting any inch of him she could find. "Stop!" she choked out. "Haldor, no!"

Moving swifter than anyone she had seen, he grabbed her throat and squeezed tightly. She choked, scrabbling vainly at his hands. Undeterred by her thrashing, he leaned close and growled, "Struggle, scream, or cry and I will kill the children myself, do you understand?"

Shocked, unable to believe that this was the Haldor she had known, who had held her hand so gently, she gaped at him uncomprehendingly. "W-what?" she stammered, thinking that it was a nightmare, that she would wake up soon and find herself next to Hammel and Haiweth in her tent.

"Unless you want me to torture them in ways you cannot even imagine, be quiet!" Haldor said, clutching her throat so hard that she felt like she would faint.

_This cannot be happening,_ she thought in bewilderment, as his hands moved back to her pants. She felt them sliding down her thighs and whimpered, pressing her legs close together and shutting her eyes.

"Keep your eyes open!" Haldor snarled, and the next instant he had grabbed her shoulders and was shaking them. Her eyes flew open and she was looking right into his face, into a glare so terrible and malignant that she did not know how she had missed it before. She felt sicker than she had ever been in her life.

"No wonder your uncle abandoned you to Saruman," he told her, his hands moving down her body and to her legs. Effortlessly he prized them apart, and Gúthwyn felt her stomach turn cold. "You are pathetic and weak. Look at yourself."

Gúthwyn knew she was trembling, knew that her eyes were drenched in horror. She moaned, turning her head away so she would not have to see anything.

Not a second later, Haldor grabbed her chin and yanked it towards him. "You are going to watch," he said, his ice cold, unfeeling voice making her want to sob. "You are going to watch me as I take you, do you understand?"

Overpowered, helpless, Gúthwyn was forced to obey as he lowered himself on top of her. She thought she would pass out. And when the pain came, when she nearly gagged in revulsion, her vision blackened. The last thing she saw before departing the world was Haldor's unflinching glare, never once leaving her face as he thrust into her. Then there was a great shuddering, and she knew no more.


	27. Crumbling From Within

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Six:  
**As always, names come from The Lord of the Rings UK name translator (such as the tiny character Gyllyn, which I got by typing in '1234'), with the exception of a small few that I have formed with the help of _The Fourteen Languages of Tolkien's Middle-earth_. In the case of Hammel, I just made it up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Twenty-Six**

The first thing Borogor thought of when he woke up that day was Gúthwyn. His eyes flicked to the corner where she slept: There were two small lumps on the ground, with no sign of a third. He had waited for her to return until the early hours of the morning, every part of his body twisting in anxiety and nervousness. The children he had pacified with assurances that she would be back before long, yet he knew that Haldor could easily keep her for any period of time.

At the very idea, he felt sick. He prayed that the Elf had done nothing, but if he had brought Gúthwyn into his tent there was no telling what he might do. Borogor wished he had thought of a better excuse to keep Gúthwyn away from Haldor, but she was a proud woman and did not want to be kept from her desires. _Pride… did your years at Isengard not teach you to get rid of it?_

Outside, the sky was slowly turning a cold grey. The men needed to be woken up soon. If Gúthwyn had spent the night in Haldor's tent, as was most likely—his fists clenched at the thought—would she be at the training grounds?

Unable to sit still for a second longer, Borogor rose and moved over to where his brother slept, curled on his side. Another wave of regret came over him. If he had not disobeyed their parents' orders to stay in the house on that day so long ago, they never would have been captured.

_It is no good to dwell on the past,_ he told himself sternly. Leaning over, he lightly shook Beregil.

"Brother, wake up," he whispered. Beregil stirred, blearily opening his eyes, rubbing them so they came in focus.

"Is she back yet?" he inquired, his eyes worried.

"No," Borogor answered shortly. "Hurry, get up, we have a long day ahead of us."

Beregil nodded, and Borogor turned to the rest of the tent. Cupping his hands over his mouth he called, "Get up! Come on, everyone, move!"

The air was suddenly filled with groans and grunts as the tent's inhabitants slowly began waking up. Borogor glanced over towards the children. Hammel was sitting bolt upright, his tiny hands pushing on his sister's back, trying to get her to open her eyes.

A faint smile coming to his face in spite of everything, Borogor made his way over to the children. "Do not worry, Hammel," he said. "I will take care of it."

Hammel looked at him. "Where is she?" he asked.

Borogor sighed. "She has not come back, yet," he answered. "Do not worry for her."

The boy merely inspected him for a time, then said, "My hand hurts."

"Your hand hurt last night," Borogor told him, "but there was nothing wrong with it." It was true. He had examined the child and seen for himself that there were no cuts, bruises, or broken bones.

"But it hurts," Hammel replied calmly.

Borogor wondered about this child. Was he always like this? It was almost nerve-wracking, how tranquil and quiet he behaved.

At that moment Haiweth woke up, rolling on her side and staring at Borogor. "Gut'wyn," she said simply.

Borogor could not take this. "Hammel, will you make sure Haiweth is ready within a minute?"

Hammel nodded, and Borogor stood up and went to grab his gear. As the second-in-command to Haldor, he was one of the few men who received their own weapons. For the most part, he found them to be of better make than the ones shipped from Barad-dûr weekly, but only by a slim margin.

His movements were tense, as he could not stop worrying about Gúthwyn. To make matters worse, Lumren soon alerted everyone to her absence.

"Where did that woman go?" he asked loudly, a mocking undertone to his voice.

Borogor restrained himself from attacking the insolent warrior. "It is none of your business what she does," he responded shortly. "Are you ready?"

Still Lumren would not let the subject go. "I saw her walking with Haldor," he said suggestively. "Think the Elf stole her from you, Borogor?" He cast a leering look over at the man.

Borogor heard the appreciative laughs of the other men, echoing coarsely inside the structure. The only ones who did not find it funny were his brother and his longtime friend Dîrbenn; they were suddenly rather interested in tying up their boots.

"Gúthwyn was never mine," he said evenly. "If she chooses to be with Haldor, that is her own decision. Now stand up and get out."

Lumren shot him a dark glare, but did not dare disobey. He left the tent, followed by most of the other men. Borogor sighed, then looked at Beregil and Dîrbenn. "I can honestly say that if he disappeared from Middle-earth, I would not be overly concerned."

"Would anyone?" Dîrbenn returned, standing up and preparing to leave. "Just ignore the man, Borogor; he is not worth your time."

"I am sick of him treating Gúthwyn and the children like dirt," Borogor answered.

Two minutes later, the three men arrived at the training grounds, accompanied by Hammel and Haiweth. Borogor scanned the place for a sign of Gúthwyn or Haldor. He only had to look for a few seconds before he spotted the Elf, standing about twenty yards away. Gúthwyn was right next to him.

Immediately, Borogor began moving towards them. He could not read the expression on Gúthwyn's face, and he had rarely been able to interpret Haldor's mood.

"Borogor," Haldor greeted him, nodding curtly as he approached. Borogor returned the gesture, though his eyes were on Gúthwyn. She was completely masked, her eyes devoid of all emotion. He thought he would roar in frustration. What had happened?

"Hello, Gúthwyn," he finally said, hoping to draw some kind of reaction from her. She merely glanced at him and nodded; her eyes flicked once to Haldor and then to the ground.

"Borogor, you will train the men today," Haldor informed him. "I have things to take care of." Was it Borogor's imagination, or did the Elf's gaze turn cruel and triumphant?

"As you wish, my lord," he replied, inclining his head respectfully.

Haldor's hand touched Gúthwyn's arm briefly before he turned away. Borogor frowned: Something had stirred within Gúthwyn's face, but he could not see what it was.

"Gúthwyn?" he questioned uncertainly, once the Elf was out of earshot.

She did not answer him. "Gúthwyn, what happened?" he persisted.

At length she glanced up, looking confused. "What?" she asked vaguely, seeming unaware of what was going on. "Did you say something?"

"Forget it," Borogor said, feeling uncomfortable and awkward. What had Haldor done last night? Had he even done anything?

Throughout the rest of the training session, in which they were practicing archery, he kept an eye on Gúthwyn. She performed the drills in a daze, barely even aware of what she was doing. Only twice did she manage to hit the target; all of the other arrows fell short of their goal. More than once Beregil had to wave his hand in front of her face to get her attention. She was carrying out the motions mechanically, putting no effort or feeling into them.

All in all, Borogor was very relieved that they had the afternoon off. When the horn blew, signaling the end of the session, he quickly put his arrows in his quiver and made his way towards Gúthwyn. She was standing perfectly still, staring at the ground.

"Gúthwyn," he said, approaching her curiously. She did not look at him. "Gúthwyn, it is time to go."

Moving as though she were in a sluggish dream, she turned and began walking with him. They were silent, Borogor's thoughts turned to how he could coax her out of her shell.

She took the first step for him, however. "Where is Beregil?" she asked dully, her shoulders slumped and tired.

Borogor glanced around, but saw no sign of his brother. Shrugging, he replied, "He has friends in other tents. He must have gone to visit them." _Gúthwyn, what is wrong with you?_ he added in his mind.

"Oh," she said listlessly.

"Dîrbenn brought the children back," Borogor continued as they came to their tent. He held the flap open for her, but she made no move to go inside.

"How are they?" she questioned, her voice strange and high-pitched.

"Fine," Borogor responded, meeting her eyes with his. For a moment, her face contorted oddly; then she nodded, and ducked inside the tent. Borogor followed her, deciding that he needed to speak with her in private later on.

The other men, with the exception of Beregil, were already back. Most of them were lying on their pallets, thankful for the extra hours of sleep. Lumren, however, was sitting up, his shrewd gaze on Gúthwyn. Borogor did not like the look on his face.

Too out of it to even notice Lumren's stare, Gúthwyn went to her sleeping pallet and lay down, reaching an arm out to stroke Haiweth's hair. Borogor watched her as he sat on his own pallet, trying to decipher even the slightest twitch of her mouth or blink of her eye, but it was futile.

A sudden warm breeze caused him to look over at the tent opening. Beregil walked in, holding what looked to be like bed sheets in his hands. Borogor raised his eyebrows, but his brother made his way over to Gúthwyn. Crouching down next to her, he said in a quiet voice, which nevertheless managed to carry throughout the entire tent, "Haldor wanted me to give you these."

Gúthwyn struggled to sit up, staring at him in confusion. "What?" she asked. "Cloth?"

"Here." Beregil held out the sheets, then stopped. Borogor could see bewilderment on his brother's face. "Wait a minute," Beregil began, sounding puzzled. "There is blood on these."

There was dead silence.

Borogor would have given anything to stop Beregil from saying that. Gúthwyn looked horrorstruck, staring at the 'gift' with eyes wide and mortified. Lumren and some of the other men exchanged knowing glances, wicked grins lighting up their faces. In that moment, Beregil realized what he had said. He twisted around to Borogor, wordlessly pleading for help.

Making a decision, Borogor stood up at the exact same moment Lumren did. "Maiden no longer!" the man called out, walking towards Gúthwyn and staring hungrily at her. She began backing away, fear entering her eyes. "Think Haldor will mind if I take seconds?"

Beregil moved in front of Gúthwyn just as Borogor reached out for Lumren. Grasping the man's shoulder, he swung him around roughly. In one swift motion, he used his free hand to take a fistful of his tunic.

"If I ever see you go near her again," Borogor growled, his eyes burning with hatred, "if you lay a finger on her, I will kill you! _Do you understand me?_"

Lumren made to twist away, but Borogor held him tightly. "_Do you understand?_" he repeated, his voice taking a dangerous edge. Haiweth covered her face with her hands.

"Yes," Lumren muttered sullenly, glaring at him fiercely. Borogor loosened his hold and Lumren wrenched himself away before stomping off to his pallet.

"Gúthwyn," Borogor said, keeping an eye on Lumren just in case, "May I speak with you for a moment?"

Her cheeks red as blood, she nodded, getting shakily up to her feet. She did not look at him once, approaching him with her head bowed.

"Beregil, will you watch the children?" Borogor asked as Gúthwyn hurried past him. He did not have to wait for the answer.

Outside, he found Gúthwyn standing with her arms wrapped around herself, staring at the empty training grounds with hollow eyes. "Do you mind if we speak away from them?" he questioned, gesturing at the tent.

She shook her head, then trailed after him as he walked towards the training grounds. There was a cluster of rocks on the right side they could shelter behind, and not have to worry about any curious soldiers eavesdropping on them. They reached the formations within a minute, during which Gúthwyn remained utterly silent. Once they were behind them, all unwanted eyes effectively blocked from view, Borogor turned to her.

"Gúthwyn, did you share his bed willingly?" he asked urgently.

Her eyes widened, and he saw them blurring with tears. His heart dropped like a stone. "What do you think?" she replied hoarsely, and then she buried her face in her hands and wept.

Borogor felt a powerful surge of loathing towards Haldor as he watched Gúthwyn sob, her shoulders heaving up and down uncontrollably. He could not even begin to imagine what it felt like, to just barely be a woman and to be taken forcefully. And now he did not know what to do—should he comfort her? Or would she cringe from his touch?

Gúthwyn's cries were increasing, sounding so wretched and vulnerable that he moved towards her. He could not stand aside and watch her break down on her own; she needed someone to support her. As gently as he might, he wrapped his arms around her, drawing the sobbing girl to his chest and patting her on the back soothingly.

She stiffened, and for a moment he thought he had made the worst mistake of his life. But then she collapsed against him, her tears falling faster than ever. "I-I was s-so f-foolish," she bawled, hiccupping as she did so. Borogor stroked her hair, privately wishing he had the power and authority to torture Haldor for eternity. "Y-you tr-tried to w-w-warn me," Gúthwyn gasped, her voice alternately rising and falling hysterically.

"No," Borogor whispered, wishing he had done a better job of it. "This was not your fault," he continued, and her cries grew louder.

"I l-l-_loved_ him!" she choked, and then a fresh wave of tears burst out.

Borogor ignored the twisting of his stomach. "Even if you had not, nothing about last night would have changed," he told her.

She drew away and stared up at him in bafflement, her eyes brimming with tears and her face streaked in red. "W-_why?_" she asked, coughing and sniffling.

"It was his idea of fun," he said bitterly.

Gúthwyn's face turned a pale green color. She lurched away from him, crumbling to her knees. With a horrible gagging sound she began vomiting, her body quivering as fluid spewed out of her mouth.

Borogor bent over and held her hair out of the way until the retching subsided. When she had finished and was still, he reached out and helped her to her feet. "Do you want to go back?" he asked concernedly.

She wiped her mouth on her sleeve, still looking nauseous. "Fun," she gasped, her eyes horrified. "It was _fun?_"

"Gúthwyn, I am so sorry," he whispered.

"Borogor," she replied, beginning to tremble as she did so. "Will he do it again?"

Borogor closed his eyes. He did not want to have to answer this question. He knew what had to be said. He knew he could not delusion her. "Yes," he said.

Her eyes became wild, a young girl trapped in a stone room with shrinking walls. "Again?"

He did not have the heart to tell her that if Haldor had his way, she would be at his tent at least once every week. "Again," he confirmed, and she blanched, swaying so violently that he had to steady her.

"No," she said, and repeated it over and over so that it became mixed with her tears. "No!"

He held her tightly, afraid that if he let go she would fall. _Ilúvatar,_ he thought as she sobbed into his chest. _Help me protect her, if it is in my power to do so._

As the two of them stood there, Borogor's arms wrapped consolingly about the weeping Gúthwyn, Haldor watched from a distance, his eyes glinting in the dying sunlight.


	28. Crying Is For the Weak

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Seven:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Twenty-Seven**

Gúthwyn could not have imagined ever feeling so wretched as she did over that week. Whenever she thought of what Haldor had done to her, every inch of her body burned in shame and humiliation. She began having nightmares, waking up to remember Haldor's hot breath on her face, his hands roaming over her body, feeling the pain and disgrace so sharply that tears would form in her eyes again.

Without Hammel and Haiweth, she did not know how she would have made it through the week. They, of course, had been told nothing about the night she had not returned, but they sensed her change of mood. Haiweth gave her hugs constantly, and Hammel had taken to coming up to her and holding her hand for long periods of time. Ever since Haldor had threatened them, they suddenly seemed so much more precious.

Borogor had helped her as well; she suspected that he might have told the other men in their tent to leave her alone, as not one of them had approached her since—the single exception being Lumren, who sent her leering stares ever so often that made her blood freeze. And it was Borogor who comforted her after her nightmares, staying up so often with her that she felt guilty.

Yet despite the support she received from him, she remained in a state of jumpy anxiety. Every flash of golden hair she saw set her on edge; going to the training grounds became a miserable affair. More often than not, Borogor had to coax her onto them. She lived in such terror of seeing Haldor that she felt sick all the time. She ate less than before, hardly able to swallow even tiny amounts without vomiting.

Ever at the back of her mind was Borogor's warning that Haldor would return for her. Worse than the terror of knowing it would happen was not knowing _when_ it would happen. Each day she awoke from a night of fitful sleep, wondering if she was going to be called back to his tent.

Slowly, interminably, a week passed. Gúthwyn had neither heard nor seen anything of the Elf. A small part of her prayed that he had forgotten her. Perhaps he had no use for her now. Maybe his duties were keeping him too busy, either at the Black Gate or at Barad-dûr.

Yet it was not to be. On the eighth day, just as night was crawling into the sky, she and the children were preparing for bed. She had already gotten Haiweth to sleep and was about to do the same for Hammel when Beregil entered the tent. She glanced up and saw that he was coming towards her. His face was solemn.

"Gúthwyn," he whispered, crouching down next to her. "Haldor wants you to go to his tent."

She backed away from him, shaking her head violently. "No," she said, trembling. Hammel gazed at them curiously. "No, I will not," she continued.

Beregil looked distinctly uncomfortable. "He thought that you would say that," he replied, staring at his hands. "He said… he said that he would…" He cast an uneasy glance at Hammel.

Her face paled, and she felt sick. "Must I go n-now?" she asked. Beregil nodded, and she turned to Hammel. The boy clearly sensed that something was wrong. "Hammel," she said quietly, "you will have to get yourself to bed tonight. I am sorry, but there is something… something I have to do." Her voice wavered slightly, and she gave the boy a long hug before pulling away and standing up.

At the entrance to the tent she passed Borogor, who was just walking in. Ducking her head in embarrassment, she tried to move past him quickly, but he gently caught her arm. "Where are you going?" he questioned, his eyes narrowed with concern.

She shook her head, unable to speak, trying not to concentrate on the pressure of his grip. He understood instantly, letting go of her at once. "Good luck," he whispered. "Do you want me to wait up?"

Once more she shook her head, feeling as though she were about to cry again. "Thanks," she managed to get out, and then slipped away into the darkness.

She remembered the way to Haldor's tent, for she had gone to it every night in her dreams. The time seemed to melt away, and before she knew it the structure was looming up before her, the place she had never wanted to see again in her life. For a few minutes, she huddled outside, shivering in the cold, unable to bring herself to move.

The flap rustled, and suddenly a gleaming pair of eyes were staring at her. She jumped and shrank away.

"Get in here," Haldor commanded, his voice making the hairs on the back of her neck rise.

She stepped forward, taking a deep breath and attempting to calm herself. She felt so nauseous that she nearly threw up. Haldor stood aside as she entered the tent, noting with relief a candle that was burning in the corner. At the very least, it would not be dark—that, she thought, would have been more than she could bear.

It was in the middle of the room that she stopped uncertainly, folding her arms tightly and glancing at the Elf. He came close to her and grabbed her shoulder. "Undress," he hissed. "Now."

Her eyes widened as he drew away, and for a moment she merely stood there, trembling from head to foot.

"Do it," Haldor said dangerously, "or you know what will happen."

Gúthwyn gulped, then slowly, tentatively, began removing her clothing. She turned her back to him as she slid her shirt off, casting it in a heap on the floor. Her skin was cold and covered in goose bumps. With shaking hands she pulled her pants off, leaving only an undergarment on. She hesitated. How could she do this?

"Do I need to repeat myself?" Haldor's voice came from right behind her. She gasped, feeling hot tears coming to her eyes as she darted away from him. Before she lost the nerve she took off her last article of clothing, and finally stood utterly bare.

Cold, thin hands were wrapped around her stomach, smooth as silk; yet when she tried to twist out of their grasp, it was iron that kept her in place. "No," she whimpered, cringing.

"You are learning to follow instructions," Haldor whispered, his hands sliding up and down her torso. She thought she would faint. "Very good."

He began steering her towards the bed, putting more and more force on her back as she grew less and less willing. "Now," he said, when they stood before it. "Lie down."

Nearly falling away from him, she crawled onto the bed and instinctively curled into a tight ball. He laughed quietly, the sound instilling terror into her. "No, no, no," he told Gúthwyn, lying down beside her. "We cannot have that. Stretch out, and keep your arms away from your body."

With violent shivering, she complied. A sudden rustling sound met her ears as he climbed on top of her, and she realized that he had removed his leggings. Her thoughts were becoming numb, her soul separating from her body. _Not again,_ she prayed, though it was far too late. _Please, please…_

She became aware that he was still, and slowly her eyes focused on his own. "W-what?" she stuttered.

"Do you want to know why your uncle never came for you?" Haldor asked maliciously.

Gúthwyn frowned, but she did not want him to speak of her family. "No," she said.

He continued as though he had not heard her. "Look into my eyes," he ordered sharply. She did so. They were cruel, like the falcon that has espied a rabbit, and like the falcon they pinned her down mercilessly. She lasted less than a minute before she had to wrench her gaze away, unable to endure his stare any longer.

Instantly, his hands grabbed her chin, forcing her to face him once more. "Look at me," he growled, and his eyes seemed to burn with ruinous fire.

Breathing was becoming difficult. She felt as though Haldor were suffocating her. She squirmed underneath him, trying to escape so she could retain her sanity. "No!" she gasped, panting, her face coloring from lack of air. "Let go!"

He struck her across the face, hard, stopping her instantly. "You cannot even look at me without fear," he said. "You are a coward, and of no use to your family. If they saw you now, how ashamed do you think they would be? You are barely sixteen and already impure, but not married."

"You made me…" she whispered, trying desperately to swallow back tears. She almost wished that he would take her now, rather than talk to her.

"Yet you cannot deny that you wanted me," he told her, and she whimpered because it was true. "I could see it in your eyes the first time I looked upon you."

With a cringe, Gúthwyn remembered how foolishly she had acted. Had it really been that obvious? She would have given anything to have known better from the beginning.

"So do not tell me that I forced you into this," he growled. "Women are all the same: They are willing to do anything, to play any game, until they are called to keep their promises. Then they try to pull away, for it suddenly dawns on them what they are about to do. Well, fool, I have news for you: This is not a game anymore. You will do what I say, and I will hear no complaint from your lips. Do you understand me?"

Shaking, Gúthwyn nodded, and Haldor slid his hands down to her waist. She recoiled from his touch, sucking her stomach in as far as she possibly could. Once again, he paused.

"On the other hand," he whispered, his eyes alight with amusement, "were you to… beg, I might be persuaded to let you go for the night."

Gúthwyn stared at him, wondering if this was his idea of a joke. "Beg?" she repeated, her mind already making up its mind.

Haldor smiled, his lip curling. "'Please, Haldor' will suffice, I think."

She shook her head firmly, a faint stirring of her old pride rising. "Never," she vowed. "I would rather live in your tent."

The Elf did not look surprised or angry in the least. On the contrary, his grin widened. "I thought so," he said, and taking both of her wrists he pinned them to the bed. "I will have you saying it yet."

And the way he told her this, calm and sure, gave Gúthwyn a terrible feeling in her gut.

* * *

The first thing she was aware of next morning was a wave of ice cold water completely drenching her. With a shriek she sat up, her soaked hair plastering to her neck, utterly freezing. She was on a dirt floor, still naked, with no recollection of how she had gotten there. Shaking so severely that she could almost hear her teeth chattering, she looked up and saw Haldor, an empty bucket in his hands.

It was too much. With a shudder she began to cry, putting her hands to her face, feeling her mangled cheek and sobbing even harder. In addition to being cold, wet, and miserable, she felt totally exposed, vulnerable, and disgraced.

Almost immediately, something hard slammed into her, and she was knocked flat onto her back. Before she could catch her bearings, Haldor was looming over her, pushing on her arms to hold himself up. He slapped her again and again, until her cheek felt numb, then put his face so close to hers that she thought he was going to kiss her.

"You do not cry," he hissed instead, his eyes furious. "Crying is pathetic and weak!"

In response, Gúthwyn's tears only fell faster. She could not believe this was happening to her. No one was supposed to go through this.

Haldor grabbed her by the throat until she was choking. "If I ever see you crying, or hear of you crying, I will take one of those children. By the time I am done with them, you will not be able to recognize them!"

Images of what Haldor might do to Hammel or Haiweth flashed through her head, and Gúthwyn panicked. She shook her head wildly.

"My lord, the—" A voice came from the doorway, then abruptly stopped. Haldor twisted around, still lying on top of her, and Gúthwyn craned her neck to see who it was. Her cheeks turned bright red and she felt sick with shame when her eyes fell upon Borogor's mortified expression.

Haldor did not seem bothered at all by the situation. "Yes, Borogor?" he asked calmly.

"I-I… I am sorry, my lord," Borogor muttered, moving towards the tent flap. "I thought… I thought you were done…" He made to leave the tent.

"Stay," Haldor ordered, getting off of Gúthwyn and standing over her. "You interrupted nothing important."

Giving one last sadistic smirk to Gúthwyn, the Elf stepped away, allowing Borogor a full view of her naked body. Borogor's face tightened and he quickly looked away, but not before he had seen everything. She truly thought she would die of humiliation. With a soft moan she curled up, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around herself.

"Get your clothes on and get out," Haldor snapped at her, before turning back to Borogor. Used, and now discarded like a pile of rags, Gúthwyn attempted to crawl towards her tunic and pants without revealing anything. "What is it that you were saying?" Haldor asked as she did so.

"Another troop of Easterlings has arrived," Borogor answered, his voice sounding slightly strangled.

"How many?" Haldor questioned. Gúthwyn reached her clothes and began pulling them on hastily, wishing that she could sink into the floor and never have to look Haldor or Borogor in the face again.

"Several hundreds, by the looks of them."

"Fine. You will train the troops today," Haldor said briskly. Then he turned to Gúthwyn, who had just finished tying up the drawstring of her breeches. "Have you finished yet? I think a dying oliphaunt could move faster than you."

Gúthwyn did not know what an oliphaunt was, but she muttered "yes" to the floor.

"Good." Haldor strode towards her, barely giving her time to cringe before he grabbed her by the crook of her elbow. Hauling her up, he thrust her with such strength towards Borogor that she nearly crashed into him. The man held out strong arms to steady her; she wrenched away, too embarrassed to even meet his eyes.

Haldor watched all this with calculating eyes. "Take her to the training grounds. I am going to oversee the arrival of the troops."

"Yes, my lord," Borogor said. His voice was respectful, but there was a darker undertone to it.

Without further speech, Haldor pushed past them and out the tent. Gúthwyn began to follow him, her cheeks flaming red, but with a gentle arm Borogor stopped her. She looked at him, confused, crossing her arms over her chest as though she were still bare.

"Gúthwyn, I did not know that you were still… still…" Borogor fumbled for the right words, then gave up. "I thought he would have finished."

"He did," she told her hands, every nerve on her body squeamish. "But…" She did not want him to know how weak she had been. "Never mind, Borogor," she said tiredly. "Where are the children?"

"They are with Beregil," he answered softly. For a moment, there was an awkward pause.

"Please, can we get out of here?" Gúthwyn asked, carefully avoiding looking at Haldor's bed.

Borogor nodded and held the flap open for her. She walked around him, twisting to the side so that she did not come in contact with him, keeping her arms tightly folded.

"Gúthwyn…" Borogor began as he followed her outside. She turned back to him, still looking at the ground. He reached out and gently lifted her chin. Her eyes widened and she shrank from his touch. "Do not be afraid of me," he said quietly, "nor ashamed in my presence. It is all that I ask of you."

She tried to pull away, but he persisted and did not release her. "Borogor…" How could she do what he asked? She had spent the past week living in a state of terror, and in her despair she did not see how that would ever change.

"Please," he said.

Looking into his eyes, calm and kind, she swallowed hard and nodded. He let go of her, and she could not help but feel relieved.

"Shall we go?" Borogor asked, and Gúthwyn realized that they had to be at the training grounds.

"Yes," she replied, her voice barely above a whisper. They began walking, and for the entire journey they were absorbed in their own thoughts, each dark like the approaching times.


	29. Rivers of Blood

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Eight:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Twenty-Eight**

_Twang._ Gúthwyn let go of the bowstring, and the arrow flew across the training grounds. It fell short of its mark—a crudely constructed wooden target—and skittered harmlessly off to the side.

"You need to draw the string back further," said Borogor, who happened to be near her.

"Right," she said, irritated and crabby. Two months of constant, daily training had passed by, and yet she still had not gotten any better at archery. She could not stand it. Her shoulders always ached from pulling the bowstring back, and until Borogor had gotten her a pair of gloves, her hands had bled after each session.

"Here, let me show you." Borogor came up to her and she gave him the bow, watching sullenly as he drew it back until his hand was just touching his mouth. His eyes narrowed a split second before he released it, and they both followed the arrow's path as it embedded itself in the center of the target. "Do you see?" Borogor asked, handing the bow back to her.

Gúthwyn sighed. "I do not think archery is for me," she replied. "What are you supposed to be doing with your feet and elbows?"

Borogor listened to her patiently, then said, "Get into position, and I will tell you what you are doing wrong."

She obeyed, turning to the right and starting to raise the bow. Immediately, Borogor interrupted her.

"Your feet are not fully turned to the side."

Looking down, she saw that he was, indeed, right. She corrected herself, then took an arrow and fitted it to the bow. Lifting it up once more, she drew it back, imitating Borogor and pulling until her fingers were touching her mouth.

With a twinge of nervousness, she saw that Borogor had stepped closer to her. It had nothing to do with him: Haldor had called her to his tent two nights ago. He had been doing this every week, and each time it just got worse. She no longer passed out when he entered her, but she thought that remaining conscious just amplified the horror.

"Gúthwyn?" Borogor's voice mercifully pulled her back in from her thoughts.

She shook her head. "Sorry, I was lost for a moment. What were you saying?"

His eyes held hers. "Do you mind if I adjust your position?"

Try as she might, she could not repress the instinctive shiver that came over her. These days, the very idea of someone touching her, however harmless the intent, filled her with revulsion.

"S-sure," she said, taking a shaky breath and holding it.

Gently he took her right elbow, raising it up slightly and pushing it back so it was aligned with the rest of her body. Carefully he squared her shoulders, then adjusted her fingers on the bow. He worked silently and efficiently, never letting his hands linger too long. "Are you alright?" he asked.

She nodded curtly, clenching and unclenching her stomach muscles.

"Now look at your target."

Turning her head slowly, Gúthwyn concentrated on the wood structure.

"Perfect," Borogor breathed.

"I am glad to see that we are improving."

The voice was off-hand, casual, but Gúthwyn knew it from her nightmares. With a horrified gasp she jumped and twisted around, ruining the pose Borogor had just managed to get her into. All the while, Haldor watched her with his cruel and cunning eyes. "Or perhaps not," he said, stepping in so that he was only a few feet away from her. The men on either side of Gúthwyn shifted to make room.

She looked to Borogor for help, but he had already slipped off to assist Beregil. She could not blame him for avoiding a confrontation, but she felt as though she were flailing in dark waters and unable to swim.

"Get ready to shoot," Haldor commanded her. "Your technique is horrible. I will fix it."

Her eyes widened in terror and she backed away. She would never be able to concentrate with him so near her.

"Do it," he ordered, his eyes blazing and his voice deadly quiet.

Shakily she obeyed, turning back around and lifting the bow. Her hand trembled so much that she could not keep it still. She was forgetting everything Borogor had told her just moments before.

Haldor moved in close behind her, so that she almost felt their bodies touching. Her stomach turned over as he roughly took her hands and jerked them into place. "Draw the bowstring back," he said, and she complied. Her breathing was becoming faster, and feelings of alarm were swirling within her. It was as though dark walls were closing in around her and she had no escape.

He pushed her elbow up before grabbing her waist. She whimpered as he squared it, simultaneously losing the rest of her form and lowering the bow. "No," she whispered, trying to move away from him, but his hands pulled her back.

"Are you listening to nothing that I tell you?" he hissed, closing his wrists about her own and angrily moving her arms back into place. "Shoot, now!"

Panicking, she hastily let go of the string, sending the arrow flying to the far left of the target.

"You are not concentrating!" Haldor growled at her, gripping her shoulders and turning them so that they were in line with the rest of her body. Gúthwyn felt dangerously close to crying.

"Get another arrow and shoot again," he said, and her fingers fumbled in her quiver before finding an arrow. It took her several tries to fit it onto the bow. She then lifted it, her breathing now erratic. Immediately Haldor's hands were on her, yanking her limbs back into position. She wanted to curl up somewhere, alone, and die.

She shot the arrow, watching with a sinking heart as it lost flight before it reached the target and fell uselessly to the ground. With a snarl, Haldor effortlessly turned her around, drawing her body to his. Their faces were so close that for a wild moment she thought he would kiss her.

"Do you think this is funny?" he snarled instead, his eyes boring holes into her. She shook her head frantically, unable to breathe. "Then why are you so incompetent?" he pressed furiously, his grip on her tightening so that it was painful.

Gúthwyn tried to wriggle away and scream, but all that came out was one word: "Stop."

"What did you just say?" Haldor asked, daggers in his tone.

All of the panic he had instilled within her came rushing out. "I said, _stop!_" she shrieked, and before she knew what she was doing she had reached back and thrown her right fist at him. It landed solidly on his chin.

She barely even had time to blink before something exploded on the side of her head, creating fantastic bursts of stars before her eyes. Blood filled her mouth, and she spat it out with a sickening slurping noise. Crumpling to the ground, she clutched her head in agony, feeling as though it had split in two.

Through the haze of pain she saw Haldor reach down for her. She was lifted up as though she weighed no more than Haiweth. "Do not _ever_ challenge me again, do you understand me?" he growled, shaking her shoulders as he did so. "You have not the power nor the intelligence. If you lift a hand against me one more time, I will take those children and break their necks."

Before she could say or do anything, he wrenched the bow out of her hands. Casting it to the ground, he began steering her away from the other men. Helpless to struggle against him, she gasped, "What are you doing?"

"I am going to teach you to a lesson," Haldor answered coldly, and did not elaborate. Gúthwyn felt panicky once more. Would he really take her to his bed in the middle of the day? Her face paled, and for a moment she thought she would vomit.

The nausea increased as he pushed her along the now-familiar path to his tent. When they arrived he shoved her inside, so that she fell to her knees. More blood came out of her mouth. Haldor stepped over her, going towards his bed, and she moaned in despair. _Not now,_ she thought wildly. _Please, not now._

"Get up and take your shirt off."

At first, she did not understand the order. She looked up at his back in confusion, wondering if he had made a mistake and meant all of her clothes.

Very slowly, Haldor turned around. He held a knife in his hand. "I am getting tired of repeating myself," he said, and she heard a terrifying anger underlying his voice. She scrambled to her feet, pausing for a minute before turning around and removing her shirt. She knew that modesty was not an issue where the Elf was concerned, but she still loathed the thought of his eyes on her.

She suddenly felt strong hands on her back, pushing her towards the rock wall. She gave a muffled shriek as she was pressed against the hard surface, her ruined cheek rubbing up against it painfully. Haldor moved his hands up to her shoulders and whispered in her ear, "I think it is time you learned how to obey orders."

Pinned to the wall, she was unable to even move as he slid his arms under hers, just brushing her breasts before sliding down to her stomach. She choked, squirming against him in panic.

"Do not worry," Haldor told her silkily, before bringing his hands back to her shoulders. "I will not have you for another week. Today, we are going to do something different."

Gúthwyn swallowed hard, trying to push away the tears forming within her. In the midst of her dread, she did not notice Haldor lifting up her arm; when she did, it was too late. She heard the dull _clank_ of iron, and something closed about her wrist.

"Haldor?" she asked, her voice wavering. She tried to move her arm, but she could not. With a horrified feeling rising within her, she slowly looked to her right. One of the manacles she had noticed the very first time she set foot in this place was circled around her wrist, holding it firmly in place. She felt its cold bite keenly against her skin.

As she made this discovery, Haldor wrapped another chain around her left wrist, securing it against the wall before she knew what was happening. She twisted, trying to make sense of what was going on. "Haldor?" she repeated.

There was no answer. Suddenly her ankles were grabbed and shackled so that she was incapable of moving them. Gúthwyn panicked, bucking away from the wall like an untamed horse struggling against its trainers. "Haldor!" she shrieked, her face pale and her eyes wide.

He came up behind her and grabbed her throat, leaning in so that his mouth was almost touching her ear. Gasping for air, she heard, "I do not want any sound from you until I am done."

She tried to pull away from him, but he increased his grip, so that she felt her face turning blue from lack of air. She went to grab at his hands, but remembered that her own were firmly tied to the rock wall, unable to be removed. As always with Haldor, she was utterly helpless.

The Elf took her sudden lack of resistance as an acceptation of his orders. "Good," he whispered, and even though she was facing the rock wall she could almost see the smirk on his face. "Now, in case you are feeling tempted to disobey…"

Gúthwyn watched as he took the remaining two chains and wrapped them around her shoulders tightly. She was now only able to shake her head back and forth; every other part of her body was completely restricted from motion. Standing and bound, shivering, she suddenly became aware of just how silent it was within the tent. She could hear the drifting shouts of men from the training grounds.

A cold hand was placed on her back, followed by something small, sharp, and pointed. Tensing, she sucked in her breath. The smaller item traced around her bare skin, seeming to have no fixed route. She felt Haldor's warm breath on her neck and shuddered.

Suddenly, a sharp pain originated between her shoulder blades. Something warm trickled down her back. She gasped, trying to arch away, but the chains held her fast. Slowly, cruelly, Haldor dug the knife into her skin, carving it away as easily as he would an apple. Shaking violently, she bit her lip hard and tried to ignore the agony spreading throughout her body.

With each turn of the knife the pain increased. Her lips were bleeding profusely, though nothing compared to her back. Sweating, fighting tooth and nail to not cry out in anguish, she tried to gauge how much damage had been done. However, all thinking was next to impossible. Every nerve in her body was screaming for release, every limb shaking from the torture.

How long Haldor kept her there Gúthwyn did not know. It could have been minutes, hours, years. When the knife stopped he undid the chains, stepping away as she collapsed to the floor in a pitiful heap. She lay there on her side, eyes screwed shut and muscles taut, feeling sick and nearly screaming in agony. The only sound she could hear was her harsh breathing.

Tentatively, afraid, she reached for her back. Her fingers slipped on all the blood. With a low moan she felt out the cuts, drawing in her breath every time she felt one. The pain was incredible: Sharp, lacing, unrelenting. The incisions did not seem too deep, but even if they were shallow they could still become infected. She was shaking.

"Get up," Haldor's voice sounded, coming from above her. "Now."

Her eyes opened and she saw him standing above her, holding his knife. It was now scarlet and soaked. Spatters of red were falling on her stomach. She stood up, immediately folding her arms across her chest and shrinking away from him. She could not bear to look him in the eye.

"Get out."

The instant she heard Haldor's command she obeyed, keeping her head ducked as she ran towards her shirt and yanked it over her head. Her back shrieked in protest and she tried to ignore it, though she winced with every small movement. She felt his eyes on her and hastened her movements, each of them now infested with horror.

When she had finished she ran for the exit, pushing the flap open in a frenzy and gasping for the air outside. Haldor's chilling laugh echoed behind her and she sprinted faster, going not towards the training grounds but to her own tent. All of the other men were practicing, so no one saw her lone figure tearing through the camp, the back of her shirt drenched in dark red blood.

She came to the tent and flung herself inside, crawling to her corner and curling up in a tight ball. Her back hurt too much for her to do anything other than grab her knees and rock to and fro, occasionally whimpering as a burst of agony wracked her body. She made no move to stop the bleeding.

Slowly the afternoon passed. Her stomach was growling and her back still felt as though needles had been stuck into it, but she thought the blood flow might have stopped. She did not check it. Instead she sat up, hugging herself and biting her now black and blue lips. She waited for Borogor.

He came with Hammel and Haiweth in either hand, shortly after night had fallen and engulfed her in shadows. The only source of light was a lone candle by the door. She made no sound as the other men filed in behind him.

"Gút'wyn!" Haiweth cried, seeing her and running over. Gúthwyn unfolded herself and allowed Haiweth to give her a hug, responding slowly after a few seconds.

"How are you?" she whispered, inexplicably feeling as though she were about to sob.

Haiweth did not answer, but smiled happily and let go, sliding over to make room for Hammel. The boy solemnly wrapped his arms around Gúthwyn, but almost immediately drew them back. "Your back feels strange," he said simply.

The sentence seemed to hang in the air, rising over all other conversation in the tent and floating to where Borogor stood, watching the three of them. She saw his eyes narrow, and she met them for the briefest instant before looking back at the children.

"I think it is time for you two to go to bed," she murmured, stroking Haiweth's hair. "You would not want to be tired tomorrow."

Haiweth pouted. "No bed," she whined, yawning as she did so.

"Yes bed," Gúthwyn replied. "Come along." Her back gave a painful twitch and she winced, instinctively holding her hand over it.

Head hanging, Haiweth moved towards her pallet. Hammel walked just as morosely, though as it was his natural demeanor Gúthwyn was never quite sure if he liked bedtime or not.

Once the children had settled onto their pallet, instantly falling asleep as was their wont, a shadow fell over Gúthwyn. She looked up, cringing as she did so, and then realized that it was Borogor.

"It is nothing," she said as he crouched down beside her, looking concerned. She did not want him to examine her back; she wanted to forget it had happened. The pain was even subsiding.

He gave her a look. "Gúthwyn, you do not have to suffer by yourself," he told her.

She concentrated on tracing a swirling pattern on the ground, and for a few moments was silent. Nothing would take the weight off her chest more than confiding in him, yet she felt ashamed of what she had allowed Haldor to do to her.

"My back," she said eventually, turning around so that he could see it. She heard a sharp intake of breath, and she turned back to see his ashen face.

"What did he use?" he asked.

"A knife," Gúthwyn answered, curling up once more and recounting the story in whispers to her feet.

"You need to change your bandages," Borogor told her worriedly. "The blood has already soaked through them."

Gúthwyn looked at him. "I did not put on any bandages," she said dully.

"No band… By the Valar, Gúthwyn, are you trying to kill yourself?" Borogor hissed, staring at her in shock. "You could have bled to death, you could get an infection, you—"

"I do not want to look at it," she replied.

"Do you have any idea how foolish you are being?" he demanded.

Gúthwyn's eyes widened, and she turned away. A silence followed, in which Borogor seemed to realize whom he sounded like. "I am sorry," he apologized. "Please, at the least put some bandages on or allow me to."

"No!" she gasped. She would never remove her shirt inside a tent full of men; especially Lumren, who happened to be watching the two of them with a narrowed eye. Every morning she took the children behind a large pile of rocks on the outskirts of the camp, just so they could avoid the other men. It was there that they changed and prepared for the day.

"Gúthwyn, this is ridiculous! I cannot allow you to harm yourself like this!"

"Forget it, Borogor," she told him. "Let it be."

"Absolutely not," Borogor said, and his face was stern. "As a commanding officer, before you come to the training fields tomorrow, I want your back wrapped up."

She stared at him, aghast. "Get away from me," she finally snarled, backing up towards the children. "Just leave me alone!" She pulled the bottom of her shirt downward in defiance.

Instantly, a searing pain engulfed her. She gasped, her hand flying to her back. It felt as though part of her skin had been ripped off.

"What is it?" Borogor asked instantly.

Gúthwyn tugged at her tunic again, then stopped. Her eyes closed. "My shirt is stuck to my skin," she answered, her voice faint. She tried to peel a piece off, and the pain increased.

Borogor sighed. "Do you have a spare shirt?" he questioned.

"Yes… why?" Gúthwyn did not like the look on his face.

"Come with me and bring it," he said, standing up.

"Wait!" Gúthwyn protested, getting to her feet as well. "What are you doing?"

"We are going to have to cut your shirt off," Borogor explained, his expression dark. "I say 'we' because I know from experience that it is near impossible to do yourself. I am not going to lie to you: It will be painful."

Gúthwyn took a step away from him. "And what makes you think I am in agreement with this?"

"Would you rather get an infection and die from it? Where would that leave Hammel and Haiweth?" Borogor persisted, gesturing towards the sleeping children.

"You are asking me," Gúthwyn began, her voice low and shaking uncontrollably "to let you take off my shirt in front of these _men?_"

Borogor began to say something, but she stormed ahead angrily. "How could you?" she hissed. "You know how he has humiliated me, and yet you seek to do the same thing?"

"Gúthwyn—"

"Stop it!" she exclaimed. "Forget it! I cannot believe this!"

"Gúthwyn!" Borogor finally roared.

"What?" she shrieked back, raising her hand to strike him before realizing what she was doing.

A thick silence suddenly fell over the entire tent. Everyone was staring at them.

Borogor lowered his voice. "Peace, Gúthwyn. I did not mean to do it here."

Slowly, Gúthwyn let her hand drop by her side. "Where, then?" she asked, struggling to keep her voice under control.

"Normally," Borogor began, sounding relieved now that they were not shouting at each other, "this would be done inside, but there are no unoccupied tents we could use. Would you mind if we went behind those rocks?"

She shook her head, but warnings were creeping through her already. What was to stop Borogor from having his way with her once they were alone? He had proven himself trustworthy, time and time again, yet had Haldor not done the same thing?

Borogor saw the hesitation in her eyes. "I promise you," he said gently, "you are safe with me."

Gúthwyn looked at him, trying to read his expression. "Am I?" she asked, and he did not answer.

* * *

Ten minutes later, an agonized scream rent the air. 


	30. A Powerful Enemy

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Twenty-Nine:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Twenty-Nine**

"Everyone, listen up!" Borogor roared, cupping his hands to his lips so that everyone on the training grounds could hear him. Though a horn had been blown not five seconds ago, it took nearly two minutes for the soldiers to quiet down and stand at attention.

Once he was sure that all eyes were on him, Borogor continued. "It is time to spar! Get into your lines!"

Gúthwyn winced, rubbing her back ruefully. It still had not fully healed since Haldor had taken his knife to it. She remembered perfectly—how could she not?—when Borogor had had to prize her shirt off of the mess. It hurt just to think of it. These days, it hurt to think of much beyond training. Haldor continued to call her to his tent every week. Her nightmares grew worse, yet obeying the Elf's orders she had not allowed herself to show that they were affecting her. She kept her emotions bottled up, and there was no way of releasing them that she knew of.

Her musings were interrupted by the rough complaint of an Easterling: Burzum, their leader. "We have done enough," he snarled at Borogor. "It is almost sunset. We have been practicing since noon!"

Borogor opened his mouth to silence Burzum, but Gúthwyn got there first. She had been in Haldor's tent last night, and some of the frustration and anger she felt spilled into her words. "Just shut your mouth and do what he says!" she snapped, folding her arms over her stomach and glaring.

The Easterling turned towards her, his eyes alight with fury. "Watch what you say, you whore!"

Gúthwyn recoiled in embarrassment, and Burzum's eyes seemed to darken with triumph. Then they widened in pain, for Borogor had grasped his arm and twisted it.

"You heard what I said," he growled, his blazing eyes focused on Burzum as he rotated the arm further. "And it would do you well to restrain your uncouth tongue, or you shall not have it for very long. Do you understand?" He turned Burzum's arm even more.

Burzum nodded shortly, his face contorted in pain. The moment Borogor released him he jerked away, sending such a foul look to Gúthwyn that she was suddenly afraid. He stormed off, and she turned to Borogor.

"I am sorry," she apologized wearily, rubbing her eyes. She never got sleep after lying with Haldor. "I should not have lost my temper."

Borogor shook his head. "The man is constantly questioning me. I think he had gotten accustomed to commanding before his troops came here."

Gúthwyn went to join the swiftly forming lines, but Borogor stopped her with a warning. "It might be best if you… avoid him for a few days," he said, frowning. "He might seek retribution."

"Retribution?" she asked, confused. "Why?"

"He did not appreciate a woman telling him what to do; let us leave it at that," Borogor replied.

They separated, Gúthwyn moving to the end of a line while Borogor stepped up onto the platform. For sparring, the men were all organized into several rows. Each of these lines had their own counterpart with whom they would practice. When the soldiers had finished sparring the man opposite them, a whistle was blown. Everyone would then shift one spot to the left and receive a new partner.

Gúthwyn's first opponent was Beregil. She was now able to beat him over three-fourths of the time: He was not well suited to weaponry, and only had the basic skills. She herself had much room for improvement, but she was slowly getting better with each passing week. She rarely used swords, as for sparring the weapon was a blunt stick about the same weight and length as the real thing, but she felt that she would be able to handle one when the time came.

As the day progressed, however, she grew increasingly frustrated. After Beregil she had not been able to defeat a single person. Her stamina and agility nowhere near matched that of the other men. She was tired and her movements were slowing; her body was drenched in sweat and breathing was becoming more difficult. In addition, a queasy feeling in her stomach was getting increasingly harder to ignore.

The shrill noise of the whistle ended her skirmish with Dîrbenn, and wearily Gúthwyn moved down the line. She stopped short: Burzum now stood in front of her. Something about his smile told her that she was about to pay for her earlier words.

There was barely time to widen her eyes before the whistle blew again. The Easterling lunged at her and she blocked his strike, but faster than she could blink he came back with another, more powerful, thrust. Her stick was knocked out of her hands before she knew what was happening.

She was bending down to pick it up when Burzum drove the rod into her stomach, crushing all of the air out of her lungs. She gasped, doubling over in pain. Out of nowhere another strike came to her head. Shapes and stars wheeled about her as she collapsed to the ground, her head already beginning to ache.

Looking up through bleary eyes, she saw Burzum's booted foot above her two seconds before it connected with her nose. A sharp _crack_ resounded in her ears. Blood began spilling down her face; her hands fumbled as she grabbed it, trying to stem the bleeding.

"Stop," she choked, but he raised his foot and stomped down once more, this time on her ribs. The next instant she was engulfed in an agonizing pain, worse than Haldor using the knife on her. Crying out, she tried to curl in on herself, but every breath she took was like a thousand needles stabbing her.

The blows kept coming. She heard shouting noises, but they were fuzzy and distant. Her vision was sliding.

"Stop!" the roar echoed throughout the training grounds, followed by the whistle's sharp blast. Gúthwyn moaned, feeling herself sliding in and out of consciousness. Burzum had stepped away from her… was that Borogor? Yes, it was. Thinking hurt. She tried to stay away.

She saw Borogor pulling the stick out of Burzum's grip and taking his hand. There were several more snapping noises. Burzum lurched away, howling in pain. His fingers looked bent out of shape. There was more yelling.

"Gúthwyn!" Borogor kneeled down next to her. Groaning, she took a breath and gave a strangled scream. Why did it hurt so much?

"Gúthwyn, can you hear me?"

His voice was changing from loud to quiet. His outline grew blurry and then sharp. "Yes…" she mumbled, and then groaned. Were there others around them? It was so dark.

"What happened?" someone was asking.

"Broken ribs, it seems… he broke her nose, as well…" Borogor cursed. She could barely see him now. Breathing hurt. She tried to take smaller breaths, but she soon felt dizzy from a lack of air.

Sharp pain attacked her, and she cried out. Borogor had put his hand on her ribs.

"Definitely broken," she heard. "Gúthwyn, are you listening?"

Gasping, she tried to focus on his eyes. "Yes," she said, then screwed up her face in agony, biting her lip against it. She tasted blood.

"I am going to have to bring you back to the tent. This will hurt, but I need you to stay awake. Do you understand?"

More pain? She squinted at him as his words slowly went through her mind. Then her eyes widened. She did not want to move. "No," she whispered, seeing strange black spots dancing before her. Everything was growing dark.

"Gúthwyn!" And then there was pain beyond any pain she had ever experienced, jolting her back into consciousness. A choking scream cut through the air—it was hers. Borogor was shaking her shoulders.

"Stay with me," he ordered, his face taut with worry. "Beregil, help me pick her up." Then he raised his voice, shouting so that all could hear. "You are dismissed for the day!"

As the news was spread, cheers echoed through the air. She watched feet striding past. None of the men spared a glance in her direction.

"Ready?" Borogor's brother appeared at her feet.

"Yes," Borogor replied, and before she was aware of it he and Beregil had moved on either side of her. Their hands gripped her firmly.

She cringed, her breaths coming rapidly, increasing the pain. "On the count of three," Borogor said, more for her benefit than his or Beregil's. "One… two… _three!_"

They lifted Gúthwyn up, and she thought she would die. She could not muster the energy to scream, so much did the pain take from her. For a moment, she felt ill. Tears formed in her eyes and she blinked them away. Even now, Haldor held sway over her. She made no sound as Borogor and Beregil carried her over to the tent, but it was not very difficult as she could barely remain awake. Never before had the way back seemed so long.

They finally brought her into the tent and laid her down on her pallet. "Hold this over your nose," Borogor told her, producing an old shirt that had been discarded on the floor.

Gúthwyn reached out for it and stopped. The pain was too much.

"Here," Beregil said, taking the tunic. His face was white as he pressed the fabric over her nostrils, attempting to stem the blood flow.

She writhed in panic, causing the agony to double. She felt as though she were suffocating. Haldor's face swam before hers and she cried out, clawing at Beregil's hands and trying to escape. Her ribs were screaming at her.

"Gúthwyn, calm down!" she heard Borogor say, but Haldor was choking her and she did not stop squirming. He was going to kill her, right here, right now… What would happen to the children?

She felt two warm hands close around her throat, and then she knew no more.

* * *

Borogor removed his hands from Gúthwyn's neck, and he and Beregil stared down at the unconscious girl.

"What was that about?" Beregil whispered with wide eyes.

"She panicked," Borogor replied, "but I do not know why."

"Should we… bandage her ribs?" Beregil questioned.

Borogor hesitated for a moment, then nodded. "Let us do it quickly, before the others get back. Will you hold her up?"

Together, the two brothers worked swiftly over Gúthwyn. Borogor located his dwindling supply of bandages as Beregil, with some difficulty, removed her shirt. Both of them tried to respect her modesty and avert their eyes from her chest whenever possible, but all in all it was an awkward moment. They could not help noticing, either, the whip wounds that covered almost her entire torso.

"How bad are they?" Beregil asked as Borogor finished tying up the last strip. He hastily put Gúthwyn's shirt back on while waiting for an answer.

Sighing, Borogor answered, "I have seen worse, but on stronger men. I do not know how she will fare with them." His face darkened. "I better not see that Easterling for the rest of the week, or he will have more than broken fingers to deal with." He picked up the rag and began wiping the blood from Gúthwyn's nose. "I worry for her."

"Then I do not," Beregil said quietly. Borogor glanced at him, and he elucidated. "If you are looking out for her, she will be safe."

"If only it were so," Borogor murmured, more to himself than to Beregil. There was an odd expression on his face.

For a moment, Beregil watched his brother tending to Gúthwyn. Eventually he stood up, stretching his arms. Sometimes he could not read Borogor, and this was clearly one of them.

Lumren walked in then, a subtle swagger in his stride. His eyes casually flicked over the tent. "How is she doing, Borogor?" he called out, the smirk evident in his voice.

Borogor looked up, and Beregil saw anger flashing over his face. But when he spoke, there was no hint of it. "She will be fine," he answered. "But she will not be able to train for at least a month."

Beregil winced. That was as sure a way as any to receive the wrath of Haldor, and Gúthwyn did not need more help in that regard. Lumren seemed to agree; he snorted, muttering something under his breath that distinctly sounded like "pathetic whore."

Borogor stood up so fast that both Lumren and Beregil took a step back. "Keep your thoughts to yourself, do you understand me?" the second-in-command snarled, his dark hair falling over his mutinous eyes.

"Yes, _my lord,_" Lumren replied, then stormed over to his own pallet and sat down, angrily turning to face the wall.

Troubled, Beregil did likewise. As much as he liked Gúthwyn, he thought that she was causing too many problems for her own good. It seemed as if Borogor and Lumren, though never the best of friends in the first place, might come to blows over her. He knew Borogor would easily defeat Lumren in any contest, yet he worried about the divisions it might cause within the camp. Beregil was a simple young man, but he was well aware that Lumren had made several friends—powerful friends—amongst the Easterlings.

His musings were interrupted by a sudden stream of people entering the tent, having just received their dinner from one of the serving tents. He straightened, realizing that neither he, Borogor, nor Gúthwyn had had anything to eat.

"What should I tell the children?"

The whisper caught him off guard, and he jumped slightly before seeing that it was Dîrbenn. He had brought the children back to the tent.

"Well… I… perhaps…" Beregil stammered, flustered at having to make a decision. Finally he managed, "You should ask Borogor, but I see no reason for them not knowing that she was injured."

Dîrbenn cast a look over to where Hammel and Haiweth were playing with some small blocks of wood. "Right," he said. "You seem preoccupied. Is something wrong?"

"No," Beregil lied, and did not meet his friend's eyes. "I will be right back; I am going to get some food."

* * *

A confusing murmur of voices broke into Gúthwyn's dark dreams. She winced, wanting to remain asleep.

"Gúthwyn?"

The voice seemed loud to her and she shifted, trying to edge away. A sudden agony roared through her, tearing up her insides. With a gasp that only made everything worse, she opened her eyes.

Borogor was crouched down next to her, his features blurry and unfocused. "How are you feeling?" he asked, and she could barely hear him. The pain was distorting her senses.

"Hurts," she whispered, clutching at her ribs. She felt herself slipping again. Her breaths were shallow, as deep ones were nothing short of torture. Borogor noticed this.

"I know it does," he replied, "but you need to take deep breaths."

Panicking slightly, she attempted to oblige; it hurt so much that she nearly cried. "No," she said.

"Gúthwyn, you must do this," he told her, putting strong hands on her shoulders. "It hurts now, but it will be better for you in the long run."

"Gút'wyn?" Haiweth's hesitant, sober voice came from behind Borogor. Gúthwyn craned her neck to see the child.

"Do not strain yourself," Borogor said, then turned. "Haiweth, you may come over," he added in an equally gentle tone.

Slowly, the girl peered around Borogor's back. Her face fell when she saw Gúthwyn. "What wrong?" she asked softly.

"Small… injury…" Gúthwyn managed, then gasped and wrapped her hands around her ribs.

Over the pain, she heard Borogor saying, "She will have to stay in bed for at least a month."

"A _month?_" Gúthwyn repeated incredulously, already feeling tied down to the pallet.

Borogor looked at her. "This will take a long time to heal," he informed her seriously. "If it were possible, I would have you stay in bed for over a month, but I do not think Haldor will allow it."

Gúthwyn's face turned pale as she thought of the Elf. "He is going to kill me," she whispered. The world was spinning in dizzy circles.

"Gúthwyn, breathe!" Borogor exclaimed. She choked, and saw Haldor before her.

Everything turned black.


	31. Vulnerability

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty**

Gúthwyn sighed wearily, wincing as she did so. After a week of staring at the canvas walls of her prison, they were now so familiar and boring that she wanted to scream. Borogor still refused to allow her to walk around; she had tried, once, while he was on the training grounds, and had nearly died from the pain. Since then, she had barely been able to move.

No one could stay with her, so the days had been spent sitting—Borogor had mercifully propped her up—by herself. She was sick of it, but just the idea of being moved somewhere caused her to cringe. To keep herself occupied, she thought of Rohan, of the days when she had been happier.

But even the sanctuary her mind took in her home was shattered. Try as she might to convince herself that Théoden would never willingly give her up, she could not help thinking that there might have been some truth to Haldor's words. "You are worthless," he had told her during the dark nights, "and it is no small wonder that your uncle allowed you to be taken. He must have been relieved to have you off of his hands."

_No,_ her mind had insisted, _Théoden would not do that. He loves me like his own child!_

Then another, small voice would rise up within her. _You do not know what happened that day… You passed out after Éowyn and Éomer were killed… For all you know, Théoden _could _have allowed the hunter to take you…_

Gúthwyn shook her head and flinched as her ribs protested. She would not think of such things. Théoden held her dear to him, just as he had Éomer and Éowyn.

_Or does he?_

"No," she told herself firmly. It was getting dark out; Borogor and the children would be returning soon. The last thing she wanted was for them to think her mad.

Just then, the tent flap opened. She looked up, already smiling, then stopped: Lumren had walked in.

"Why so disappointed?" Lumren asked, a ghost of a grin on his face.

Ignoring him, Gúthwyn examined her fingers. They were clean, for once, as she had not been outside for a week.

"I said, why so disappointed?" Lumren's voice sounded much closer, and when she looked up she gave a little shiver. He was standing five feet away from her. It suddenly struck her how vulnerable she was, unable to stand up or shift positions. She did not like it at all.

"Who said I was disappointed?" she replied, trying to keep her voice level and her body from shaking.

"I can see it on your face," he answered, a small smile tugging at his face.

"You do not know me," Gúthwyn snapped angrily, glaring up at him.

"Is that so?" he smirked. He was drawing nearer to her.

"Yes," she retorted, "and if you do not have anything better to say, then leave me alone!"

"So bitter," Lumren mused, his eyes narrowed at her. "Surely Borogor would be disappointed."

Gúthwyn stiffened, cringing from the movement. "What do you mean?" she asked, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself. "What does he have to do with this?"

"Somehow you managed to get on his good side," Lumren spoke, and he was no longer grinning. "What was it? Did you sleep with him? It should not have been much trouble to you—just another notch on your belt, no?"

She thought she would be sick. "Stop it!" she exclaimed, nearly choking on her words. "Stop! I never shared his bed! How could you?"

"Even the Elf would agree," he hissed over her words, "and rumor has it that you have been doing several… duties for him."

"Get out," she said suddenly, extending a shaking hand and pointing it to the exit, "Get out!"

"You do not seem a very courteous person," Lumren returned, his eyes slowly moving up and down her torso.

Gúthwyn froze, stunned by the blatant insolence of his stare. Her breath caught in her throat. He smiled, and slowly stepped forward so that he towered over her. One foot was on either side of her legs.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, trying to move away. Her ribs fought furiously against her, and she only made an inch's difference between them. "Get away from me!"

"And who is there to stop me?" Lumren asked, his dark hair falling over his face and making him seem more brutal. His knees began bending.

As he drew closer to her, the tent flap was pushed aside. Borogor strode in, humming an old tune. He stopped short when he saw the two of them.

"What is going on?" he asked harshly.

Lumren winked maliciously at Gúthwyn, then straightened and turned around. "A conversation, my lord," he replied. "Surely that is not against the law?"

"That was no conversation I have ever seen," Borogor countered, his eyes narrowed. Lumren shrugged, then walked away to his own pallet as if nothing had happened.

Gúthwyn was still, her mind racing with what Lumren had just done. Her heart was beating faster than a wild horse.

"What was that?" Borogor muttered as he came over and sat down next to her.

"Nothing," she replied automatically, not exactly sure why she was not telling him the truth. Across the tent, the corners of Lumren's lips tugged upwards.

Borogor glanced at her. "Are you sure?" he asked concernedly. "You looked terrified when I came in."

"It must have been a trick of the light," she answered firmly. "Please, it was nothing."

He clearly did not believe her, but he chose not to pursue the issue. "How are your ribs?" he questioned.

"I think they are getting better." Gúthwyn gingerly pressed her fingers over them, then winced. "But only slightly."

Exhaling, Borogor leaned carefully backwards against the tent wall. "Gúthwyn, I think that in light of this… incident, you should learn how to protect yourself."

She shot an inquisitive look at him. "Do you mean… with a sword?" She was not sure she understood what he was trying to get at.

"Yes," Borogor confirmed. "I know you spend several hours a day training, but it is my impression that you have not been improving as much as you would like, correct?"

She sighed. "There is no instruction," she complained. "I never seem to learn from my mistakes, because there never seems to be an end to them."

"I could teach you more, if you want."

Borogor's offer was so unexpected that for a moment she stared at him, her mouth slightly open. Finally, she asked, "You would do that?"

"Would you?"

She studied him carefully, searching for any malignancy within his eyes. "D-do you mean it?"

He nodded. "Of course I do," he said.

Slowly, a smile spread across her face. Though it was but a shadow of her former happiness, she was more pleased than she had been for a long time. "I would like that," she answered softly.

They sat there for a few minutes in a comfortable silence, Gúthwyn's eyes following the flickering light from the tiny candle.

"We would have to practice mostly at night," Borogor said eventually, "or in the early hours of the morning."

"Is that when you usually train?" she asked curiously. Once in awhile, if she awoke late at night, she saw him slipping out of the tent.

"Yes," he replied, and then stopped. In a lower voice, he whispered, "It would be best if Haldor learned nothing of this."

She paled at the mention of his name, trembling at the thought of the Elf's hands on her stomach, his hot breath upon her neck. She feared him more than anything in all of Middle-earth, a thousand times more than Wargs or the dark. There was not one moment of the day where he was not in the back of her mind, his voice hissing maliciously at her, telling her that she was weak and pathetic.

"Gúthwyn?" The speaker sounded as if they were far away and underwater.

Shivering, she pulled herself out of her thoughts and turned to Borogor. "Sorry," she whispered, and looked away. The air was suddenly cold.

There was a rustling noise, and something heavy was placed on her shoulders. She jumped, her shoulders twisting to the side. Borogor had removed his cloak and put it around her.

"No," she protested, taking it off and trying to give it back to him. "Really, I am fine."

"Keep it tonight," he answered. Even though his bare arms were exposed to the night air, he did not have the chills.

She hesitated, then at last conceded and wrapped herself in it. The cloak was still warm, and Borogor's scent lingered in the fabric. "Thank you," she said softly, and her eyes dropped to her knees.

"Your welcome," she heard him reply.

They sat there in silence for a time, during which Lumren got up and abruptly left the tent. He had been gone for a minute when Beregil entered, the children in tow.

Gúthwyn made as if to get up, but then her ribs reminded her painfully of her handicap. Hammel and Haiweth meandered over to her, looking sleepy and unaware of their surroundings.

"How are you two?" she asked as they crawled onto their sleeping pallet.

Haiweth murmured incoherently, but Hammel managed to mutter "fine" as he laid his head on his pillow. Gúthwyn barely had time to say good night before they had fallen asleep, each utterly exhausted.

"Where are you going, Beregil?" Borogor asked, and she glanced up to see the younger brother about to leave the tent.

"Some of the men are doing horseshoes on the training grounds," Beregil answered. "Almost everyone is lining up. Are you coming? You have always been able to beat even the Easterlings."

"No, not this time," Borogor responded, shaking his head. "I will stay with Gúthwyn."

Beregil looked surprised, and Gúthwyn felt her cheeks turn red. "Borogor, if you want to go, please do not let me get in your way! I will be fine alone."

"I am not going," Borogor said firmly. "I need some rest."

"Alright," Beregil answered after a pause. "I shall see you later tonight, then."

"Have fun," Borogor called as his brother left. Gúthwyn listened to their exchange with half an ear, her mind stirring over her conversation with Lumren. _Why_ was Borogor being so nice to her? Did he expect a favor in return?

Without even thinking, she sighed heavily. "What is wrong?" Borogor questioned.

She could not look at him. "Nothing," she said, and drew the cloak tighter around herself.

"If something is troubling you, you need not suffer yourself." His voice was calm and inviting, yet not demanding.

She opened her mouth to refuse, but then she stopped. "Why is it that you treat me so kindly?" she inquired suddenly, looking at him in suspicious confusion. "What do you want from me?"

Borogor seemed taken aback. "I want nothing from you," he said, "other than for you to trust me."

"To trust you?" Gúthwyn echoed. "Why? I trusted Haldor, and—" She broke off. "Never mind," she finished in a choked voice. "Forget I said anything."

"Who do you think I am?" Borogor asked quietly. A frown was on his face.

She did not answer. Instead, she watched the sleeping forms of Hammel and Haiweth. Haiweth had her thumb firmly in her mouth, sucking on it fiercely as her chest rose and fell steadily. Next to her, Hammel was continuing his peculiar habit of lying absolutely straight, his hands crossed over himself as though he were in a coffin. She shivered at the thought.

A hand was placed on her shoulder. She tensed as Borogor's words met her ears. "Why would you think me untrustworthy?" he asked gently. "Have I done something to you?"

Gúthwyn looked back into his brown eyes, searching them intently. "No," she murmured, and shook her head. "I just…" She took a deep breath, and started over. "Someone said…" Her voice trailed off, and Borogor had to prompt her to continue. "They said that I was on your good side, and that I must have…"

Borogor's tone suddenly became stern. "You must have what?" he questioned, his eyes narrowing.

His anger frightened her, and she pulled away from him. "It is not important," she whispered, feeling as though tears were about to spill down her face.

"Gúthwyn, if you would only tell me what is being said or done to you, I could try to help!" he cried exasperatingly.

His raised voice panicked her. "Stop!" she exclaimed, and tried to move away from him. A searing pain engulfed her, and she doubled over.

When the fit passed, when she caught her breath and looked up, Borogor was getting to his feet. "I am sorry I frightened you," he said quietly. "I will not let it happen again." He turned away.

"Wait!" The word flew out of Gúthwyn's mouth before she was aware that she had opened it.

His head twisted back towards her. "They said that I was servicing you… as woman. As a whore," she finished, and was silent.

Borogor gazed at her for a moment, weariness coming upon his face. "Did he?" he asked, and he knew.

Gúthwyn nodded mutely. "Please do not hurt him." The last thing she wanted was Lumren's death on her hands.

"You realize that it can only get worse?" Borogor questioned.

"Yes," she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat and staring fixatedly at the children. "Yes, I do."


	32. Worse Than a Knife's Edge

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-One:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-One**

A month had passed since Gúthwyn had received her injuries. Slowly but steadily she was recovering: Her nose had completely healed, and she was now able to stand up and walk for a brief period of time. She was in high spirits, as she had not seen Haldor for weeks, and she hoped that soon she would be able to start training again. Borogor's promise of lessons had not been forgotten, and she was looking forward to them immensely.

As a matter of fact, there was only one thing that was truly bothering her: Food. She had not had a proper meal in days. It was not that no one thought to give her any. Borogor ensured that she got a portion equal to the others', and always asked her if she wanted seconds. But ever since her conversation with Lumren, the meat had been even more of a chore to keep from regurgitating.

She frowned. Unable to even move, she could not slip out of the tent to be sick in peace. This restriction had panicked her, making stomaching the food far more difficult than it had ever been. As a result, it had not been long before Borogor had found out. Gúthwyn could recall with ease his shocked face as he watched her throw up her entire dinner for a solid minute.

Ever since then, a bucket had been placed next to her pallet. She tried fiercely to keep her food down, not wanting to show weakness, but it was almost impossible. The few times she managed, she was plagued by horrible stomachaches that were even worse than vomiting. She was losing all hope that she would ever be able to have a decent meal again.

At that moment, she heard footsteps outside of the tent, along with low voices. She attempted to sit up straighter as the tent flap was opened. Borogor entered, followed by Haldor.

Gúthwyn froze. The Elf's cruel eyes were fixed on her. "Get up," he said softly.

She could not move or breathe. Borogor was watching her, frowning—panicked, she looked to him for help, but he did nothing.

"I said, _get up_," Haldor spat at her, and stepped forward with three quick strides.

She scrambled to her feet like a fearful rabbit, shrinking against the far side of the tent. With terrifyingly fast movement Haldor approached her. "Feeling better, are we?" he asked, and grabbing her by the ribs lifted her up into the air.

Gúthwyn cried out in fear, her legs flailing uselessly against him. The Elf's eyes burned into her as she tried to push his hands away. "Let go!" she choked, her ribs screaming. With a furious surge of horror she began kicking every part of him she could reach. "Stop!"

He tightened his hold on her, causing her to shriek from the pain. "You will be on the fields tomorrow, no excuses. Do you understand?"

In response she struggled harder, feeling as though she were about to suffocate. "Let go!" she gasped again, falling apart under his piercing blue eyes. They never seemed to blink as they stared her down.

"_Do you understand me?_" Haldor repeated, drawing her to him so that their faces were nearly touching. His grip was now iron.

She shrieked, trying to twist away from him, but every movement she made brought her back to him. "No!" she cried, pushing at him with all her might.

His eyes flashed, and his hands moved to her shirt.

"Gúthwyn, just say yes!" Borogor shouted at her suddenly.

"Yes!" she screamed, then gasped as Haldor let go of her. Unable to regain her footing she crumbled to the ground, groaning in agony as her ribs were jolted.

Looking up in a daze, she saw Haldor cross the tent to where Borogor stood. The Elf grabbed his right arm, yanking the second-in-command close to him. "Do not interfere when I am dealing with her," he snarled angrily.

Borogor winced. "Yes, my lord," he murmured dutifully, keeping his eyes downcast.

Haldor released him and turned back to Gúthwyn. "Before I forget," he said to her delicately, a smirk crossing his face, "You owe me quite a few…shall we call it… appointments."

She paled, leaning away from him. "I suppose we will have to make up for lost time," the Elf continued.

"No," Gúthwyn whispered, shaking her head frantically. "No…"

Haldor smiled softly. "Yes, we have much catching up to do—and soon." With that he turned and left, sending one last triumphant glance at Borogor.

Gúthwyn let out a low moan, curling in on herself and shutting her eyes. She heard Borogor approaching her and shrunk away from him, embarrassed to let him look at her. He had seen her weak and beaten before, and each time she loathed herself for it.

"Gúthwyn?" His voice was kind and yet she whimpered, keeping her eyes closed.

Hands were placed on her shoulders, gently but irresistibly pulling her upward. She cried out and opened her eyes. Borogor's earnest face was studying her own. "How are your ribs?" he questioned.

In response she wrapped her arms around them and turned away. "Why does he do it?" she whispered. "I feel it all the time… No matter where I am, I cannot escape."

There was a long silence, in which she glanced back at Borogor. Their eyes held each other's as he said, "I wish there was something I could do to help you."

She shook her head, and sadly replied, "You have already done enough. I would not be alive if not for you."

His face was unreadable for a few moments. Gúthwyn sighed. "I think I will go to bed now," she told him, wiping a strand of hair from her face. "Will you tell Hammel and Haiweth… th-that I love them?" A lump formed in her throat just then, and she could barely get the words out.

"I will," Borogor promised. "Sleep well; I will ensure that the other men do not bother you."

"Thank you," she murmured, and as he got up she moved back to her sleeping pallet, her heavy heart weighing her down. Closing her eyes, she prayed for a better day. _Something, anything, other than this life,_ she thought, and the darkness claimed her.

* * *

The next day was a blurry dream for Gúthwyn, one in which she hovered between a ghost-like existence and the pain that was reality. Her ribs failed her time and time again, making it impossible for her to move; impossible for her to fight. After the first hour, she was ready to give up and collapse to the ground as a passing mark on the earth, nothing more than a footnote in Mordor history.

Borogor had helped her during archery, as much keeping her feet on the ground as her arms in position. Not once did she hit the target, but she failed to care: Haldor was nowhere in sight.

"Keep trying," Borogor had whispered to her at some point during the morning, after the hundredth arrow had lost flight before the target. "Pretend you are in a battle. The other men care not whether you broke something or lost a limb. They will come after you, no matter what your incapabilities are."

She had tried to draw the bow back further, but the next instant doubled over in pain. "I cannot do this, Borogor!" she gasped, each word putting an enormous strain on her.

Time and time again he had pulled her up, convincing her to keep going for a few more minutes. Gradually these stretched out into the longest hours of her life. Without Borogor, she would have never seen the afternoon. But he had had to leave her then, for everyone was to spar under his watchful eye. Gúthwyn knew that he had paid enough attention to her already, but she could barely begin to understand how she would make it through the day on her own.

Sparring was nothing short of hell. She never came close to landing a strike on someone. All of her attacks were blocked effortlessly and countered too swiftly for her to keep up with. She collapsed routinely, and more often than not her opponent would have to haul her up in disgust. Her ribs were dying in agony.

Years later, when the last light had faded from the sky, the merciful shriek of a whistle sounded. Her current partner, an Easterling, spat at her. "A child can fight better than you," he snarled before walking away, taking some time as he went to shove her onto the ground.

Barely noticing, Gúthwyn remained where she lay, clutching at her ribs and feeling nauseous. She was in so much pain that the very thought of walking back to her tent was enough to make her want to sob.

_No crying,_ she told herself sternly. _No crying._

How long she lay there she did not know, but the first thing that brought her back to her senses was the sound of her name. Moaning, she glanced up to see Borogor kneeling beside her. He was cursing under his breath.

"_What_ Haldor was thinking…" he muttered. She whimpered at the mention of the Elf's name and closed her eyes.

She felt Borogor wrap his arms around hers. "Come on," he whispered, "I will help you back."

Gúthwyn allowed him to pull her up, blearily opening her eyes to see the now-familiarly bleak landscape of Mordor. Just the sight of it made her straits seem worse. "When will it end?" she mumbled to herself.

"What did you say?" Borogor questioned, beginning to guide her back towards the tents.

"Nothing," she replied tiredly, and leaned against his shoulder.

Just then, Beregil approached the two of them, seeming hesitant to do so. "Borogor," he began, fiddling with his hands, "Haldor wants to see you in his tent."

Borogor halted. "Can it wait?" he asked. "I am seeing Gúthwyn back to our own."

"No," Beregil responded, shaking his head apologetically. "He said you were to come without delay."

Gúthwyn separated herself from Borogor, cringing as more weight was put on her ribs. "I can manage," she said, then had to turn away to mask her grimace of pain.

"Beregil?" Borogor asked, sounding suddenly exhausted.

"Do not worry," the younger man answered. "Good luck."

She swiveled around to see Borogor striding down the path to Haldor's tent, his strong figure soon lost among the countless others swarming in the night.

"Where are Hammel and Haiweth?" she suddenly demanded, craning her neck to look for their small forms.

"They have already gone to the tent," Beregil said calmingly.

"You let them walk in the dark alone?" she near-shrieked, making a furious movement towards him. Her ribs stopped her with a painful shout.

"Dîrbenn took them."

Gúthwyn felt herself simmering with rage. "What makes him think that he can take them without telling me?" she snapped, feeling helpless. "What if something happened and I could not find them? What if they—"

"Nothing has happened," Beregil interrupted, looking anxious to placate her. "Dîrbenn has proved himself trustworthy. You will see them in a few moments' time."

She folded her arms over her chest and bit her lip in annoyance, yet it was worry running through her head. _What if they are hurt?_ she could not help wondering, and a small tremor of fear overcame her.

"Here, let me help you," Beregil said as she stared into the distance.

Starting, she looked at him. "I can manage," she repeated. "I will be fine."

He made a noise of dissent, but said nothing as she started hobbling her way back to the tent. Every step forward cost all of the energy she had, and then some. More than once, she had to stop for a moment and catch her breath.

"Gúthwyn," Beregil pleaded after the third time this happened, "will you just let me walk you back?"

"I am going to get there on my own," she gasped back, one hand firmly on her ribs. "I do not need any help."

"You were fine with Borogor not ten minutes ago!" he protested in frustration.

"I am capable of walking now," she curtly replied.

"No, you are not!" Beregil nearly yelled.

She glanced at him, and he looked slightly ashamed of his outburst. "Sorry," he muttered, his cheeks flushing red. "Borogor wanted me to help you back, that is all."

Gúthwyn felt bad for the man, who was just trying to do what he had been told, and held her arm out for him to take. "Then I apologize for making your job difficult," she said.

He seemed surprised that she had relented so quickly, but recovered and began leading her towards the tent. The journey went by much swifter that way, and they were just about to go inside when they heard footsteps behind them. Borogor came out of the darkness, looking at Gúthwyn as he spoke.

"I am to take you to Haldor's tent," he said. "Immediately."

Gúthwyn stopped short and stared at him. "_Now?_" she whispered, sickness rushing through her.

"Yes," Borogor responded shortly. Up close, she thought he appeared now distant and cold. He was watching her with a stern expression on his face.

"B-Borogor?" she asked tentatively, shivering even though the night was warm.

"Come, we do not want to be late," he replied woodenly.

She glanced back at an apprehensive Beregil, then limped forward to Borogor. "What is going on?" she questioned.

Borogor did not answer, but offered an arm for her to hold onto. She took it, wincing at the movement as they began to walk.

"What is going on?" she repeated after a minute, gazing up at him nervously. "Why is he doing this?"

Again Borogor was silent; he had not looked at her once since they had started walking. He seemed more forbidding than ever before.

"Borogor," she spoke, and stopped. For a moment the two of them stood there.

"I am sorry," he said at last, and in a split second she thought she saw a deep sadness pass over his face.

"What is going on?" she persisted fearfully. "Why will you not speak to me?"

"Gúthwyn, we are going to be late. Let us move." Once more he offered her his arm.

Disturbed, she accepted it. For the life of her, she did not know why Borogor was being so distant. The last time he had done this was months ago, when she had been blindly infatuated with Haldor. Self-loathing and disgust welled up within her as she thought of how foolish and naïve she must have seemed. _Even the blind would have seen better,_ she thought.

The trek to Haldor's tent took next to no time to finish. Gúthwyn was trembling visibly before it was done, cringing next to Borogor as he guided her inside. The room was lit, but the flickering candlelight threw shadows upon the Elf's face. She could see him sitting easily on his bed—she shuddered just looking at it—and had to repress a sudden urge to vomit.

Haldor did not even get up before giving his first order. "Take off your shirt," he said.

Gúthwyn glanced at Borogor, expecting to see his disappearing back, but was surprised to see him still standing there. A twisted knot began forming in her stomach: Did the Elf really intend to carry out his torture with Borogor watching?

The bed suddenly creaked. Haldor had leaned forward. "Do I have to tell you again?" he asked softly.

Shaking with fear and embarrassment, Gúthwyn turned away from both men and removed her tunic, immediately wrapping her arms around her chest as it fell to the floor. The ordeal was ten times worse with Borogor there.

"Turn around," Haldor commanded, and she obeyed, her face a bright red. She carefully avoided looking at Borogor, wanting nothing more than to sink into the ground and vanish from the face of Middle-earth.

Haldor stood up. "Arms down," he said.

Gúthwyn stared at him in horror, keeping herself covered. She was all too conscious of Borogor standing not five feet away from her. "I…" she whispered, the sound quavering in the air. "Not…"

"Do it," Haldor snarled, "or you will take everything off."

She felt tears coming to the corners of her eyes and blinked rapidly, terrified that the Elf might notice. Slowly her arms lowered down to her sides. She glanced at Borogor, afraid of what his reaction might be. Yet his eyes were not directed any lower than her own, and his face, though slightly tightened, had not changed. A swell of shame formed within her, and hastily she turned back to Haldor. He was now standing right next to her.

Jumping backwards, Gúthwyn instinctively covered her torso once more. The Elf lunged forward with terrifying speed and wrenched her arms back down, hissing, "Next time I give you an order you follow it, do you understand? I do not care if one or five hundred men are in the room, you will do it!" His voice grew deadly quiet. "And if you hesitate once more tonight, I will put you on that bed and make him watch. Have I made myself perfectly clear?"

Too petrified to say anything, she nodded, knowing without a doubt that Borogor had heard every word. She could not begin to imagine anything more humiliating.

"Have I made myself perfectly clear?" Haldor repeated, increasing his grip on her so forcefully that she nearly screamed.

"Yes!" she gasped instead, her eyes wide in pain.

"Good," he replied. "Borogor, get her on the wall."

Borogor stepped forward slowly, taking her arm gently and steering her away from Haldor. She could see disgust and revulsion on his face as he pressed her against the wall, lifting her arms up and securing them with the chains. Her body was shaking with terror, yet she offered him no resistance.

The sinister sound of a knife being pulled from its sheath echoed in her ears. Muscles taut and waiting, Gúthwyn heard Borogor's retreating footsteps and felt less secure than she had a moment ago. She tried to prepare herself for what was ahead, but all reason and calm were swiftly disappearing.

"Beg me to let you go and I will," Haldor whispered into her ear. She whimpered in fright as she turned her head to face him. His icy eyes bored into her own, glittering as he smiled. "Just beg," he continued.

"No," she said quietly, shrinking away from him.

"Your loss," Haldor shrugged, and turned her head so that it was facing the rock wall. Gulping, she closed her eyes.

When the hand was placed on her back, she had no time to panic or even think before the point dug into her skin. As immense pain engulfed her, she gasped and attempted to arch away, but the manacles held her fast. With each twist of the knife she shook violently—all of her old wounds were being reopened, the blood spilling down her back in ribbons of scarlet.

For an unbearable amount of time this went on, until there was a silence. The tip of the blade was removed from her skin. Panting, she welcomed this unexpected break. For a minute the only noise was that of her ragged breathing. Then there was an odd sound, one that she could not place. It was almost like a jar of beads being shaken, but muffled and to a lesser degree. She quivered, not knowing what was to come.

Now slippery and wet with her blood, the hand returned. And suddenly Gúthwyn screamed, for an explosion of agony had erupted from her back. It was burning and searing unlike anything she had ever experienced. Every movement made it worse. Shrieks and yells were escaping her as she writhed in her bonds, rising as the torture continued.

There was a pause, and the knife was lifted. The pain bit at her sharply, and she moaned miserably. _Please,_ she prayed, _let it be over._ The quiet was dragging on eternally, filling the air with a tense watchfulness.

And then the knife dug into her skin again. Once more her screams filled the tent, forming words that she could not remember seconds later. She was going to die. Slowly darkness crept over her, pulling her mind away from her body. She was dying. Everything was becoming numb…

Unexpectedly there was silence, broken only by her blood dripping onto the floor. Immobilized she hung there, unable to breathe, unable to move as she slid back and forth between unconsciousness and painful awakening.

There were two grunts, and she fell to the floor. As if the door to her emotions had been unlocked, she began shrieking again, curling in a tiny ball. Excruciating agony wracked her body as she rocked back and forth, cries escaping her with each passing second.

As she lay there she was grabbed roughly and pulled up to a sitting position. Haldor's eyes locked her into place, and she howled as her back burned more than ever before. She was cut off as he slapped her sharply. "You disgust me," he spat, tightening his grip on her arms. "Screaming like a baby! Even I expected better of you. So did Borogor."

Upon hearing the man's name she whimpered in embarrassment. Everything hurt.

"Unfortunately, I do not think he did as good a job as he could have…" Haldor whispered. "Had I done it, you would have been begging for mercy."

Gúthwyn stared at him in confusion, not understanding what he was talking about. It suddenly struck her how clean his hands were.

The Elf stepped away from her, smiling wickedly, and she was finally able to see Borogor. He stood taut and rigid, looking at her with utter self-loathing and shame. His hands were soaked with blood, scarlet spatters falling to the floor as they stared at each other. The knife was firmly clenched in his right fist.

As if a pillow had been pressed over her face, she stopped breathing. Her heart hammered painfully in her chest as she gazed up at him in horror. "No!" she gasped, but her lips moved wordlessly. Borogor's face twisted as he watched hers, and he looked away.

Suddenly she was sick, choking on her own vomit as it spewed out onto the ground. "How could you?" she screamed when she was done, feeling as violated as though Borogor had forced himself on her. She shrieked again as another wave of pain overcame her.

He stepped forward and she scrambled away from him, attempting to cover herself. She felt sick to her stomach.

"Gúthwyn," Borogor said in a strangled voice, dropping the knife. It clattered down with a cruel noise.

A cold hand closed around the back of her neck, hauling her up and causing her to choke. Haldor drew her to him and turned her around so that her back was facing Borogor.

"It is fine craftsmanship, Borogor," he called out to the man. Gúthwyn struggled weakly against him. "You have done well today."

"Thank you, my lord," she heard him murmur, and with a surge of anger and humiliation pictured him bowing his head respectfully.

"I will need you to stay for a few moments to clean up the mess," the Elf continued.

"As you wish," Borogor replied quietly.

"You," Haldor said, looking down at Gúthwyn in contempt. He ran a finger down her chest and drew several light circles on her stomach. She shuddered and squirmed away, but he merely pulled her back. "You are too predictable," he laughed softly, then narrowed his eyes at her. "Now get out of my sight."

She was thrust away from him; stumbling, she found her shirt and pulled it awkwardly over her head. _If it sticks to me, so be it,_ she thought. Her face was screwed up in agony.

Before she left, she took one last look at Borogor. The man was already down on his knees, cleaning up her blood and vomit with a spare rag. He glanced up at her, and for a moment she felt like sobbing. She opened her mouth to yell at him and then closed it. Turning on her heel, she fled from the tent.


	33. Scouring

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Two:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-Two**

Only five feet away from Haldor's tent Gúthwyn stopped, pressing her hand over her back. Teeth of pain bit at her like a pack of Wargs… the Wargs of Isengard…

Repressing another scream she staggered ten, twenty, thirty more feet. The night was pitch black. Even though she had traveled this route countless times, she was swiftly losing all sense of direction. Panicking, she whirled around, expecting to see Haldor or Borogor lurking behind her. The movement tugged at her back and she gasped, sinking to her knees. Unable to get up she pulled her legs in close to her chest, lying on the ground and shivering against what she thought was an outcropping of rock.

As she huddled miserably in her pain, a gradually brightening light formed in the corner of her eye. Groaning quietly, she squinted at it and saw that someone holding a torch was nearing her. It was Borogor.

_No!_ she thought fearfully, falling completely still. _Do not let him see me,_ she pleaded, closing her eyes and trying to make herself smaller.

A minute passed, and his footsteps grew louder. Gúthwyn held her breath, fearing for her safety. What if he tried to harm her again? She would not be able to resist him. _Surely he would not do that,_ a part of her protested.

_But you did not think he would betray you like he just did,_ another part of her replied.

Once more she fought wildly against the tears threatening to escape her. _How could he?_ she wondered, blinking rapidly. _How could he?_

A low moan passed through her lips and she froze. The footsteps were quelled. _He must have heard me,_ she thought, shaking.

"Gúthwyn?" Light filled her eyes. Whimpering, she pulled away from it. _No more._

Borogor's hand gently came down on her shoulder, seeming heavier than before. She cried out as needles of pain pricked her back. "Stop!" she exclaimed.

His arm brushed over her back, sending waves of pain pulsing through it, and then she felt him lift up her shirt. Slowly the fabric separated from the blood. Writhing under the agony, she tried to move away from him, but the hand on her shoulder kept her in place.

"We need to get you cleaned up as soon as possible," he murmured, letting her tunic fall back into its original place.

"No!" Gúthwyn choked out, and wrenched herself from his grasp. She had barely sat up before she doubled over again, her mouth opening in silent screams. Every inch of her back was on fire.

"Gúthwyn, please, your wounds could become infected!" Borogor replied urgently, sounding as though the words were difficult to form.

"Why did you do it?" she shrieked at him, meeting his eyes angrily. She did not want to admit how much his betrayal had hurt her. "Why?"

"I had to," he answered, his face contorting strangely. He looked weary and dejected, and she saw his hands shaking.

"You had to do nothing," she spat, shrinking away from him. Why was her back still burning? What had Borogor done to it?

"You of all people should understand," he said, drawing himself upright and gazing at her—yet he did not seem angry.

"I should understand why you tortured me?" she retorted, her eyes wide.

"If I had not done so, he would have killed Beregil!" Borogor exploded, then deflated before her eyes. Gúthwyn had never seen him look so horrible.

"H-he s-said that?" she stammered, recalling with a fresh surge of awful memories all of the times Haldor had threatened the children's lives. She heard the hissed mutterings, felt the hot breath on her face and the hands sliding to her stomach and below. _Worthless… pathetic… small wonder your uncle chose not to send search parties for you…_

"Gúthwyn?"

She started, then glanced at Borogor and suddenly realized how alike the two of them were. "I am sorry," she whispered, and buried her face in her hands.

Borogor slowly pulled them away, his touch soft and undemanding. "Gúthwyn," he said, "will you not let me clean your back? The salt needs to be washed off."

"The salt?" she echoed, staring at him strangely. "What salt?"

"The knife was dipped in it," Borogor answered quietly. "It stuck to your blood."

For a moment she felt faint, and reeled away from him. Her back connected with the rock projection and exploded in anguish; cries were lifted into the air as Borogor attempted to steady her. "It hurts!" she exclaimed hysterically, leaning into his arms and gripping his hand so tightly that her knuckles turned white.

He did not wince, but gently disengaged himself. "It will keep hurting until the salt is taken out and your wounds bandaged. There is also the possibility of infection."

Almost not aware of it, she had reached her hand up to touch the mangled mess of her left cheek. In all her time here, no one had ever commented on it; most men were too concerned with regions below her face. Even Haldor had not made any remarks on it.

Borogor saw her and asked, "Does that hurt often?"

"No," she started to say, then gasped as a fresh burst of agony peaked within her.

"The cuts need to be cleaned immediately," he said worriedly, and his face was dark. "Gúthwyn, removing the salt will not be easy for either of us."

"Us?" she questioned, glancing up at him suspiciously. "I can do it my—" She stopped, cut off by the pain from her back.

"Do you think I would let you do it on your own?" Borogor returned sharply. Then his tone became more subdued. "Besides," he added, "I was the one who caused the damage. I will be the one to fix it." She knew there was no arguing with him. The wounds were getting harder to bear with each passing minute.

"Fine," she consented roughly, barely able to get the word out. She wanted to trust him. _But what if he hurts me again?_ she thought, shivering. _What will I do then?_

_You will have to put up with it, just like you do with Haldor,_ another voice answered. She drew a shaky breath.

"Here, let me help you up," Borogor said, and Gúthwyn realized that he was now standing above her. She hated having to rely on him for things, but when she tried to rise without him the pain overwhelmed her. His expression never changed as he held his hand steadily before her, and at length she took it. She was lifted up easily.

"Thank you," she said quietly, looking at the ground.

"You do not have to be ashamed of needing help," Borogor replied. Before she could say anything, he continued. "We will stop by the tent for water and the bandages. I think it would be better if you waited outside—Hammel and Haiweth might still be awake, and the sight of your wounds would frighten them."

"Are you a father?" she asked suddenly, her shoulders hunched over as he began guiding her back to the tent.

He looked at her. "No," he answered after awhile. "Beregil and I were captured when I was only twelve."

Gúthwyn focused her eyes on the ground, wondering how old he was now. He could have passed for twenty or thirty, maybe even thirty-five. But she did not want to ask for fear of seeming too bothersome. Though she had had limited courtesy education at Edoras, being nowhere near the throne and only a child, she was acutely aware that most people did not like being asked questions.

They continued walking. Often she had to stop, bending over unexpectedly to repress shrieks building within her, but Borogor kept pushing her to go a little further. Eventually, after what felt like years of labor, they were in front of the tent. Here he left her, and she struggled to remain standing as he disappeared inside.

"Where did the girl go?" she heard Lebryn snidely remarking. Her insides twisted at his tone. Then there was the plaintive call of Haiweth.

"Where Gút'wyn?"

Gúthwyn wanted to rush over to the girl and hug her fiercely, kiss her and assure her that everything was alright, but a hard lump formed in her throat and her back refused to cooperate with her. Instead she listened to Borogor's words, directed rather at the child than the bitter warrior.

"She will return soon," he replied calmingly. She felt strangely relaxed by his speech, and thought to herself that despite his earlier words he might have easily been a good father. "You will see her in the morning. Are you going to bed now?"

"Yes, Borgor!" Haiweth's cheerful voice rang out. By the small candle in the tent, Gúthwyn could see Borogor's shadow coming back towards her. It paused by a smaller figure that she recognized to be Beregil, exchanging a few low words before re-emerging. He carried a medium-sized canteen, bandages, and several rags.

"Are you ready?" he asked.

She nodded, trying to swallow her nervousness. "I-Is this going to hurt?" she inquired, faking nonchalance and failing miserably.

"Yes," he told her bluntly, but his eyes were apologetic. "If you wish, I could make you fall unconscious before. There is no guarantee that you will not wake up during it, but it is better than nothing."

"No," she said, shaking her head firmly. "I will stay awake."

A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips. "Somehow I knew you would say that."

She blushed. "Am I that predictable?" she asked, recalling Haldor's words from before.

"Just proud," he said, and offered her his free hand. She took it reluctantly, for she could barely stand without his assistance.

"I hate this," she muttered, wincing.

"It would be best for you to get used to it," Borogor replied.

She let out a groan of frustration, then cried out as they started moving. Her back had responded angrily. To take her mind off of it, she managed to ask, "Where are we going?"

"Behind the rocks, as we did last time."

Gúthwyn shuddered, recalling that miserable experience. The rest of the journey was spent in silence, her hands twitching more violently as they came closer to their destination. And when they did, her knees suddenly gave out. Had Borogor not been supporting her, she would have fallen to the ground.

"Careful," he grunted, helping her right herself. "Are you alright?"

"Under the circumstances?" she gasped, trying to make a joke out of the situation. The rocks were now completely obscuring them from the rest of the camp. A thought occurred to her. "What if someone comes out and sees us?"

Borogor shook his head. "The Nazgûl patrol in the night, but they never come around here."

She had never heard the name before, but something about it instilled fear within her. "What are they?" she asked.

"The Dark Lord's most terrifying servants," Borogor responded. "I do not know their numbers, but there are at least five. They ride on black horses, and thus are sometimes known as the Black Riders."

Gúthwyn suddenly recalled an incident that had happened around her tenth birthday. "When I was little, many black mares were taken from the stables one night," she said.

He shot a surprised look at her. "You are from Edoras?" he questioned.

"Yes," she replied. "Did… Did you know about it, then?"

"It was Haldor who suggested it," he answered.

A hot, boiling anger arose within her. Even before she had met the Elf, he had harmed her people.

"Let us get this over with," Borogor said, taking one of the cleaner rags and handing it to Gúthwyn. "Put this in your mouth—it will help you deal with the pain. And…" he seemed reluctant to continue. "I am sorry, but you will need to remove your shirt."

Her face flushed as she nodded. A quick tug on her tunic informed her that the fabric still had not stuck to her back. Turning away from Borogor, she took the shirt off, dropping the bloody mess carelessly onto the ground. Even though he had said that no one was around, she still wrapped her arms firmly around herself.

"Lie down on your stomach," she heard him say from a short distance. She hesitated, panic running through her. If she lay down, she would be utterly helpless and at his mercy.

She glanced back at him. "Please," he said.

Slowly she obeyed, lowering herself gingerly to the ground, every nerve in her body on edge. Her back was already protesting.

"Are you ready?" he asked for the second time that night, and she heard footsteps from close behind. Quickly she stuffed the rag in her mouth and nodded. Her heart hammering, she listened to Borogor's approach. There was a soft _thump_ as he kneeled beside her—the tip of his knee brushed against her side, and she cringed.

"I am sorry," he whispered. Something in his voice made Gúthwyn think that he was apologizing for a lot more than accidentally touching her.

She tried to reply, but all that came out was a muffled sound. Any second he would start. Her fear of the unknown future was drastically increased.

"Three…" Borogor said, now right above her. She stiffened. "Two…" Her entire body was shaking. "One."

Cold liquid splashed down onto her back, drenching her skin and seeping into the wounds. Gúthwyn gave a shriek that was silenced by the rag, clenching her fists as her body was lit on fire. Then she screamed, for more cloth was pressed into the cuts. And suddenly Borogor's hand began digging into the mangled flesh, rooting out the salt. Simultaneously, more water was pulled on.

She began kicking and howling, the pain so excruciating that she felt she would burst. Her fingers reached behind her and began clawing at Borogor's, scratching them and trying to push them away. "STOP!" she roared over and over again, but the rag was choking her and she could not get the words out. He merely pushed her hands aside, avoided her thrashing legs and turned a deaf ear to her stifled cries, scourging her back so ferociously that she wished she would die. The icy cold water was burning her skin… The marks would be there when this hellish nightmare ended.

Gúthwyn attempted, once, twice, several times to get up. Her legs were buckling and collapsing under her weight, and Borogor had her pinned down with one knee, preventing her stomach from moving an inch. Her resistance became more violent, and as the agony doubled and tripled she slapped her hands at Borogor's arms, where she thought his face was, his knees, everywhere she could.

"Gúthwyn!" she heard him exclaiming. The water kept pouring. She managed to take hold of one of his hands and yanked it from her back.

Instantly her arm was grasped and twisted, sending shoots of pain throughout her torso. Gasping, she tried to jerk it away, but Borogor kept the pressure on it until she could literally feel the bones at the breaking point. She was howling and squirming as he finally let go, her cries tripled as he returned to the original task. No longer could she move her arm against him—it lay, limp and useless, by her side.

Still Borogor continued, his ministrations a thousand times worse than in Haldor's tent, systematically working his way down her back as she shrieked and writhed beneath him. He still had half of the wounds to clean. The blood was streaming onto the ground as he worked, coldly ignoring her frenzied struggles. She could not continue with this; she would surely die in seconds…

She did not know whether it was the already dark skies, lit only by pinpricks of light from faraway towers and soft glows from the tents, but her vision was turning blacker by the second. As he neared the base of her spine she felt herself slipping from her body, losing the strength to cry or fight. Her movements were becoming sluggish and less intense with each breath.

Gúthwyn was losing her battle with unconsciousness when, unexpectedly, a sheet of water came cascading down her back, moving up and down the entire surface. Rags pressed onto the wounds shortly afterwards, absorbing liquid and blood alike. She lay in numb shock as Borogor performed the finishing touches upon his work. _Hurts so much…_ she thought, finally able to hear her own mind.

And then Borogor was hauling her up into a sitting position, with no more difficulty than if she had been a rag doll. "I am putting the bandages on," he murmured into her ear, and she sat still as he wrapped them around her, incapable of even the smallest movement. She could not work up the energy to wince as his hands brushed over her stomach, nor reply when he asked concernedly if his touch was bothering her or if the bandages were being tied too tightly.

When he was done he said, "All of the salt is gone. As long as you keep these on for at least two weeks, you will not have to worry about infections."

Gúthwyn barely made it through the last sentence before collapsing against him, speeding away from her body with a funny noise in her ears. The last thing she heard before the darkness claimed her was his voice saying, "I am sorry… So sorry I had to do this…" Her mother was holding her and she knew no more.


	34. Breaking Point

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Three:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-Three**

Almost half a year had passed since Gúthwyn had been taken to the Black Land. Half a year of uncertainty, humiliation, and terror. Haldor still sought to break her with relentless ferocity, and slowly but surely it was working. She was called to his tent every week, forced to endure worse and worse punishments as the months went by. When she returned from these in the middle of the night, curling frightfully up beside Hammel and Haiweth, she could not sleep for fear of him coming back for her.

Instead of subduing her in silence, he now spoke to her in his bed, whispering horrible things about Théoden. It was always the same. "Your uncle is sitting carelessly upon his throne, with a host of people serving him and taking care of his every need. And where are you? In Mordor, a slave to _me_… Do you think he still loves you now? Do you think he ever mourned your disappearance? Why did he not send people looking for you, then?"

As much as she tried to ignore the hurtful words, they were firmly planted in her mind and with her every second of the day. She knew Haldor would lie shamelessly to her, without remorse or regret, but a small part of her could not help but think that there was some truth in his speech. Why had Théoden not come after her, when she had been barely a stone's throw away in Isengard?

At first she had tried to repress these thoughts, telling herself that Théoden would never turn his back on her so callously, but as the nights she spent with Haldor built an impenetrable wall of the Elf's mutterings around her, her mind became weaker and weaker. She lived in a constant state of fear, every sight of Haldor making her pale and trembling, every touch from a man loathsome and bringing nausea to her stomach.

With all of this weighing down upon her, she had nearly stopped eating. Just the sight of the foul meat placed before her was enough to have her leaning over the bucket, her belly's contents threatening to regurgitate themselves. There were only three things that kept her going. Two of them were Hammel and Haiweth. A constant drive to keep them safe and unaware of the dangers around them was what she woke up for every day. She hoped she was succeeding—in Haiweth's case, at least, for the girl never seemed troubled by her turbulent life. However, Gúthwyn could rarely, if ever, determine what Hammel was thinking. The boy was a closed book to her.

The other thing that helped her survive as Haldor cruelly tormented her was Borogor. True to his word, he had begun giving her fighting lessons shortly after he had healed her back for the second time. She had been so excited the first time she had met him behind the rocks for practice, thinking that he would teach her how to become as good as he was. But to her disappointment, he was doing the exact same thing as the afternoon drills. All they did was spar. Whenever she asked him what she was doing wrong, for the longest she could hold him off was thirty seconds, he would merely say, "Experience will teach you." Then their swords would meet again, but experience never seemed to teach her anything: Her technique had not improved the slightest bit. Only her stamina had been strengthened, but it seemed a poor exchange if she was not learning a thing.

Tonight was one of those nights. She and Borogor had crept out of the tent at midnight, Borogor carrying a torch to calm Gúthwyn's incessant, blinding fear of the dark. They were circling each other, a wooden stick in their right hands, waiting for the opportune moment to strike.

Gúthwyn leaped in first, aiming for his shoulder, but was effortlessly repelled by his counterattack. She never got the chance to try again as he drove her backwards, not once pausing in his whirlwind of strikes. Becoming more flustered by the second, she parried them all successively, but with more difficulty each time. Finally he got under her guard and knocked her stick to the side, an instant later placing the tip of his own to her neck. He had not even broken a sweat.

She bent down to retrieve her stick, flushing a little. "What did I do wrong?" she asked, wondering if she would get a clear answer this time.

"Experience will teach you," he replied simply. "Ready to go again?"

Gúthwyn sighed as she nodded. After last night, she was not in the mood for this. She had been with Haldor until early in the morning, squirming under his malignant caresses and trying to keep down her almost non-existent dinner. As she thought of how helpless she was in his hands, self-loathing and hatred arose within her.

"Gúthwyn," Borogor said, bringing her back to his senses. She started, then shook her head.

"Sorry," she replied, then readied her sword.

For the better part of two hours they fought, hundreds of skirmishes that Borogor ended as swiftly and easily as the first one. Every time she asked him for help, he said only, "Experience will teach you." She grew utterly sick of the phrase, and soon became immensely frustrated with Borogor. If the whole point of these lessons had been to teach her what she was not learning in the daily drills, then why was he refusing to instruct her?

The sky was still dark when Gúthwyn decided that she had had enough. "I am done," she said angrily as Borogor's stick once more prodded her neck, for what seemed like the thousandth time. "This is doing nothing." She reached down for her stick and picked it up, preparing to go back to the tent. Perhaps she could still get three or four hours' worth of sleep, sleep that she desperately needed.

"One more time," Borogor urged, in stark contrast to her completely awake.

"Why?" she snapped, glaring at him. "What am I going to get out of it?"

"You never know," he replied calmly, twirling his stick as he spoke.

"Did you think of a new sentence to use?" Gúthwyn asked bitterly, folding her arms across her chest.

"Just do it," Borogor answered, sounding less like a friend and more like a commanding officer.

"Fine," she said, thinking that this was the last time she would ever agree to practicing with him. Her mood was on the verge of foul.

The ensuing clash ended exactly as she predicted it would. In less than half a minute he had triumphed over her, bringing his stick to rest lightly on her throat. She wrenched away from it, snarling, "Now will you tell me what I am doing wrong? Or do you enjoy beating someone so easily?"

Borogor shrugged. "Experience will teach you," he said.

Something inside her snapped. "_Will you stop saying that?_" she roared, and dropped her stick. The next second she had launched herself at him, throwing a punch that landed solidly on his chin and knocked his head to the side. He returned with one of his own, but she easily blocked it and sent another one to his stomach. All of her emotions, pent up for the past six months, were finally releasing themselves, and Borogor was her unlucky victim.

For several minutes they wrestled with each other, Gúthwyn not stopping even when some of his strikes drew blood. His eye was already swelling up, but she refused to let him go. By keeping him busy with a hit aimed at his face, she kicked his legs out from underneath him. She did not wait for him to hit the ground before she was on top of him, pressing her knee into his gut and throwing punches at every inch of his skin she could see. He fended her attacks off, returning his own, but not once did she slow down. Her fury was providing her with more energy than she had ever had in her life.

Suddenly he got the better of her, gripping both of her arms and using them to push her over to the side. The next second, he was the one on top of her, raising his arm to strike her. For the briefest split second, she froze. Haldor's face loomed over her.

_You are pathetic,_ he said, leering at her. But then he faded, and to her surprise was replaced by Théodred.

_What have I taught you?_ her cousin asked simply.

With another surge of rage, Gúthwyn kneed Borogor in the groin just as he was bringing his fist down towards her, causing him to cry out and go temporarily limp. She took the advantage, using her strength to roll them over again. Once more, she was on top. Before Borogor had time to realize what had happened, she delivered the hardest punch she had ever thrown. It landed on his nose with a satisfying _crack_. Blood spurted out of it, turning her fist red.

The sight of it stopped her. She drew back, afraid of what she had done. Borogor was clutching at his nose, trying to stop the bleeding. He motioned towards the pouch he always wore on his belt. "Rag," he grunted.

She fumbled with the catch, at last opening it and drawing out a single piece of fabric. Quickly she handed it to him. He took it and laid it on his chest. Then he pressed both hands on his now off-center nose, and with a sickening _crunch_ jerked it back into place. Gúthwyn gasped as a torrent of blood came gushing out, but Borogor now put the rag in his hands and pinched his nose tightly. The cloth turned scarlet.

A horrible guilt engulfed her as she scrambled around, looking for another piece of fabric to still the bleeding. Finally she ripped off a strip from the bottom of her shirt and gave it to him, trying not to think of what would happen if he bled too much. How could she have been so stupid? The only other time she had done this was to poor Tun, who luckily had had his mother to take care of him.

Unexpectedly Borogor stirred, sitting up and rubbing his nose with his free hand. "That was one of the best brawls I have ever had," he said.

"I am sorry," she said, unable to meet his eyes. "I did not mean to—"

"Forget it," he cut her off, looking at her keenly. "Where did you learn to fight like that? The skill I just saw surpasses that of most captains."

Gúthwyn opened her mouth, closed it, and opened it again. "My cousin," she said. "He taught me every day for seven years. I had not had much practice until now." Something trickled down her cheek, and she realized that it had been cut. She wiped away the blood as Borogor replied:

"You must have had quite the cousin."

She nodded. "I owe him so much," she whispered sadly. "I never got the chance to say goodbye."

"Is he still alive?" Borogor asked softly. The blood on his nose had slowed down to a trickle.

"As far as I know," she answered. Her heart twisted as she thought of Éowyn and Éomer. The only person in Mordor who knew of them was Haldor. And tonight, she decided, it would remain that way. "I-Is your nose alright?" she questioned.

"Give it a few more minutes," he replied, and then their eyes met. "I think the next lesson will be more satisfying."

She looked at him confusedly. "What do you mean?"

"Next time," he elucidated, "I will start teaching you what you need to know."

For some inexplicable reason, Gúthwyn felt like she had just passed a test. She did not know what to say.

Borogor watched the young woman as she gazed at him, a mix of confusion, embarrassment, and gratitude upon her face. He had to admit that he was surprised. She could barely pick up a bow; her swordsmanship was at best poor, yet in less than five minutes she had beaten him in a fistfight. Until now, only two people had accomplished that. One of them was Haldor.

As a matter of fact, the Elf had been the main reason he had brought Gúthwyn here. Every week he had seen her returning from Haldor's tent, too worn out to even cry, barely able to drop onto her pallet before curling into a tiny ball and falling asleep. It frustrated him to no end that he was powerless to do anything about it, but he could only imagine how she felt.

Whenever the Elf spoke to or touched her, Borogor had watched her retreat further into her shell, bottling up her emotions for fear of Haldor punishing her. The self-destructive path she had set herself on would slowly tear her up from within. He would have given anything to slow or even stop the process—and by bringing her out and frustrating her so much that she abandoned all self-restraint and lashed out at him, he thought he might have accomplished something.

"Borogor?" Gúthwyn asked, sounding far away. He pushed his thoughts away.

"I am sorry, what did you say?" She was staring at him strangely.

"You were looking at me for a long time." Her voice was hesitant and unsure. "I-It made me uncomfortable."

"I got lost in my thoughts," he explained, mentally berating himself for his insensitivity. "I did not mean to worry you."

She nodded, staring at her hands. _When will you look at me like you are my equal, and not turn away like you are my slave?_ he wondered. Aloud, he said quietly, "I think we should head back. The sky will be light soon."

"How is your nose?" she asked in return.

"Fine," he responded. The bleeding had almost stopped. "You did well today."

Gúthwyn blushed furiously, not seeming to know how to respond to a compliment. _When was the last time someone gave you one?_ Borogor watched her settle for standing up and offering him her hand. He took it and let her haul him up. "You are strong," he commented. Until now, he had not noticed the muscular frame of her arms.

"I was a laborer for four years," she said, a grimace crossing her features. "Do you need another rag?"

He declined the offer, choosing not to press her about her past. They began walking back to the tent, each wrapped in their own thoughts. He was already planning possible lessons, his mind going over which techniques she needed to learn and which she needed to work on. It would be difficult, finding the time to instruct her. The more nights they had at their disposal, the better, but he knew that if Haldor got wind of what was going on, the Elf would do everything in his power to make Gúthwyn's life a living hell.

A surge of anger and shame rushed through him as he remembered being blackmailed into carving up his friend's back, having to keep to the sick and twisted pattern Haldor had set. Before Gúthwyn, he would have tortured anyone to keep his brother alive. Beregil was the only family he had left, and Borogor protected him more fiercely than the younger man knew. But for the first time in years, he had faltered when it came to hurting someone.

He could easily recall the disgust in Haldor's face. "_Finish the job, you coward,_" the Elf had hissed when the knife was lowered. Over her agony, Gúthwyn had not heard them. Even with Beregil's life hanging on such a slim thread, he had hesitated before returning to his duties. To torture a woman, bound and helpless before him, clashed so strictly against his moral code that for a moment he had almost cast the knife down and walked away.

The fact that Gúthwyn was the woman made it far worse. He had seen people receive their share of bad luck before, but she never seemed to get a break. Everywhere she turned, there was another blow she had to face. Haldor never let up on her—permanently emblazoned on his mind, no matter how much he wished to forget it, was the morning he had walked in on them. The terror and humiliation on her face was heart wrenching. It made him sick to think that the Elf was capable of doing something so cruel and inhumane to someone who could not be older than sixteen.

Glancing up, Borogor was startled to see that they had almost reached the tent. His musings had carried him the whole way back. Outside the flap, Gúthwyn paused, turning to him and drawing close. "Thank you," she whispered. A smile came to her face.

"Your welcome," he replied, marveling at the young woman before him. He had not seen her happy in months; now he was amazed by how such a small thing transformed her. Right then and there he made a vow to train her to the best of his capabilities, to teach her everything she knew, so that one day she would be able to hold her own against any professional warrior. It was easy for him to see that she delighted in fighting—something else the two of them had in common.

Borogor was true to his word. Over the next three months, he and Gúthwyn devoted every night possible to training. By working around the times when Haldor called her to his tent, they were able to compile a rough schedule that served them well. The lessons were only for a few hours, but they were enough. During that time they practiced techniques and sparred relentlessly.

Throughout these sessions, Gúthwyn never ceased to surprise him. No matter how tired physically or worn out mentally she was, she put all of her energy into what she was doing, attacking new strikes and blocks so furiously that she would master them within minutes of Borogor's instruction. She seemed to take an almost unearthly satisfaction from fighting with him, from having a weapon in her hand and being able to use it well. By the end of the second month, she was no longer the only one returning to the tent with bruises.

That was not to say that the lessons were all going as planned. The level of Haldor's most recent brutality towards Gúthwyn always affected her temper, which in turn affected the amount of progress made. Sometimes she got so frustrated that she simply attacked him without warning, abandoning the sticks in favor of fists and refusing to let up until she had beaten him.

Borogor allowed these attacks, welcoming them as a chance for her to vent her anger and hatred of Haldor on someone who would not punish her. He fought back with a vengeance, oftentimes drawing as much blood from her as she took from him. Yet here was one element where she could not be beaten: Her cousin had trained her thoroughly in this particular area. He sometimes thought that, were she not so terrified in his presence, even Haldor would have had to work to subdue her.

As the weeks passed, their friendship grew extraordinarily. Whenever they took a break from training, they spoke with each other to fill the silence—Borogor could safely say that he had shared more of his thoughts with her than anyone else, even Beregil. She, in turn, never said much about what was going on in the present, but spoke often of her days in Rohan. It was evident, just from the faraway look her face got, the softer quality of her voice, that she was deeply in love with her land. He learned of her siblings, who could have been nothing short of gods from the way she extolled them. Not once did he learn of their names, for she said that they brought back the pain—respecting her feelings, he did not question her on the topic.

Yet whenever Borogor asked her about her uncle, who was only briefly mentioned in tales of her brother, sister, and their cousin, she point-blank refused to talk about him, saying that he meant nothing to her. He chose not to press this, sensing a deeper issue than she let on, sometimes even wondering if it had anything to do with Haldor.

Though the lessons were kept secret, it did not escape the notice of others that Gúthwyn was drastically improving. On one night they had ended early, much to everyone's delight. Borogor was gathering discarded pieces of equipment, making note to send to Barad-dûr for better quality armor, when the slapping sound of running feet came to his ears.

Looking up, he saw Gúthwyn making her way hastily to him, a happier expression on her face than he had seen in weeks. "What is it?" he called, grinning: Her smile was contagious.

"I did not lose once in sparring today!" she exclaimed, stopping before him like a child having received their first toy.

A surge of pride flowed through him. Together they had achieved this goal; it was only the beginning. "Excellent!" he replied, laughing. Men passing by stared at them, astounded to see those who could find joy in this place.

Out of nowhere she hugged him, wrapping her arms tightly around his muscular frame and whispering, "Thank you so much." Surprised, he returned the embrace, feeling the excitement radiating off of her as keenly as if it were his own.

"Your welcome," he replied softly, and glanced up. He froze.

Haldor was standing not ten feet from them, watching their exchange with narrowed eyes. Instinctively, Borogor held Gúthwyn tighter, keeping her oblivious to the Elf's appearance for as long as possible. A sinking feeling in his gut told him that nothing good would come to this.

Yet Haldor merely smirked, striding away almost before Borogor even had time to be surprised. As the Elf's menacing figure melted away into the crowd, Gúthwyn pulled back and separated herself. "What is it?" she asked.

Borogor stared into the swiftly thinning throngs, expecting at any moment to see Haldor reappear. "Sorry, come again?" he responded after a moment, blinking and looking down at her.

"You stiffened." Gúthwyn turned her head to follow his gaze, but saw nothing.

"I must have gotten sidetracked," he explained. She opened her mouth to reply, but then Hammel and Haiweth emerged from behind a group of Easterlings.

A small smile on his face, Borogor watched as Gúthwyn ran over to them, scooping them up and hugging them fiercely. Haiweth giggled in delight, tilting her head back and displaying small teeth. Hammel merely tolerated the affection, reaching a small hand up to pat Gúthwyn's hair.

Despite the happy scene unfolding before him, Borogor remembered the chilly look in Haldor's eyes and repressed a shiver, wondering when the brunt of the Elf's wrath would fall.


	35. An Experiment

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Four:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Thirty-Four**

The first thing Gúthwyn saw, upon entering the tent after training with the children firmly in tow, was Borogor kneeling on the floor and packing a small bag.

"Hello," he greeted her, waving at Hammel and Haiweth.

"Borgor!" Haiweth squealed, running over and jumping on him.

"What are you doing?" Gúthwyn asked curiously as Borogor smiled at the little girl before setting her back on her feet.

"Packing for the trip," he replied, beginning to fold a spare shirt.

"Trip?" she echoed blankly.

"Scouting in Ithilien," Borogor responded, now placing the shirt in his pack. "We have not gone for awhile, actually—the last foray was before you came here. That was because the Rangers had reclaimed the forest, and we were forced to withdraw in case they sent more reinforcements. But now spies tell us that the Rangers have disappeared, or are in hiding, and so my men and I are going to scout the trails and report our findings to Barad-dûr."

He said it calmly and casually, as though this sort of thing happened every day, but to Gúthwyn his words were a different language. After nine months of living here, she had assumed that she knew all there was to know, but evidently she had been wrong.

Glancing up, Borogor caught sight of her lost expression. His eyes narrowed. "Did Haldor tell you nothing when he said that you were going?"

A tremor ran through her at the Elf's name, but she still did not understand what was going on. "What do you mean by going?" she asked confusedly. "He has not summoned me for days."

Now Borogor was the one who looked puzzled. "Did he say anything to you about Ithilien?"

"No," she replied. Haiweth skipped over to her and reached her arms upwards. Bending down, Gúthwyn picked her up, bouncing the child on her hip as she spoke with Borogor.

"He told me days ago that you were coming," Borogor muttered, running his fingers through his hair and seeming just as bewildered as she was. "I thought you already knew…"

"Coming to do what?" she persisted urgently. "What am I supposed to do?"

"You were to scout the trail along with the rest of us," Borogor answered absent-mindedly, "But if he never told you…" His face became apologetic. "Gúthwyn, I think you had better go see him."

She blanched, clutching Haiweth to her tightly. "No," she said abruptly. "I refuse."

"I will come with you," he offered, putting some bandages in his pack and then standing up. "It would be better to solve this before tomorrow, which is when we depart."

Shaking her head, she backed away, terror filling her at the very idea of willingly going to the Elf's tent. She might as well offer her head on a silver platter.

"What wrong?" Haiweth asked, a higher note in her voice upon seeing Gúthwyn's distressed.

The daughter of Éomund could not answer. Her throat was constricted. Why could she not breathe? And why was it so much more difficult to see Borogor? She felt dizzy. "I need to sit down," she tried to say, but nothing came out.

Something gripped her, hard, by the arm. "Gúthwyn," a man hissed in her ear. "You are frightening Haiweth."

A child's cries echoed in her ears. She was being shaken. It was Borogor. His face was close to hers, and as she pulled away she suddenly realized that she was safe in her tent. Haiweth was in tears, her face pale. Gúthwyn loosened her vise-like grip on the girl and rocked her back and forth, murmuring comforting words into her ear. Eventually the child began to settle down, and she turned to Borogor.

"I am sorry," she said shakily, still trying to banish the remnants of horror from her mind. "I just…"

"Panicked," Borogor finished for her. "Did this ever happen… before you came here?"

Gúthwyn started to shake her head, and then memories of the cage flooded her. For a moment she closed her eyes. "Yes," she whispered.

When she looked back up, Borogor was watching her concernedly. Haiweth was squirming. Shaking herself firmly out her dark thoughts, Gúthwyn set the girl back on the ground. Haiweth ran over to her brother, the two of them flopping on the ground and rolling over exhaustedly.

"I will go with you," Borogor repeated kindly as she watched the children. "You need not fear him so much if you are in my company."

His words were certain, but they both knew that Haldor could do whatever he pleased, whenever he pleased, with whomever he wished to humiliate—regardless of how much company they were in.

Yet at length she gave in, trying to calm her rapidly beating heart by reasoning that, if it was true that she was to go to Ithilien, it was better to find out for sure tonight and have some time to prepare. However, as she and Borogor walked to Haldor's tent, all logic slowly dwindled. Replacing it was the cold, keen terror of what lurked ahead, of the monsters the Elf set loose within her mind.

Whether it was the horror in her eyes or for some other reason, Borogor kept a steadying hand on her shoulder the entire time. She felt safe with him, just as she did with Éomer, Théodred, and Cobryn. He had won his way into her heart through sturdiness and loyalty, unlike Haldor who had broken it with deception and betrayal. Without Borogor, she did not know what she would have done; she did not know if she would even have survived the cruel aftermath of the Elf's punishments.

They were at the entrance to Haldor's tent almost before she was aware of it, but when she saw the structure before her she began quaking. Borogor's grip tightened as he called, "My lord! A moment, if you please."

Without the sound of footsteps heralding his approach, the flap was thrown open. Haldor glanced coldly at the two of them, then stepped aside and sardonically gestured with his arm. Cowering under his gaze, Gúthwyn slipped inside the tent, carefully avoiding him. She turned to see Borogor start to follow her. In one swift motion Haldor extended a hand to block him, stepping so that he was between him and Gúthwyn.

"I do not think so," he said coldly.

At the sight of Gúthwyn's panicked face, Borogor fumbled for an excuse. "I wished to speak with—"

"You did not," Haldor interrupted, stopping the second-in-command in the middle of his sentence. "You came to give petrified little Gúthwyn your support, limited though it is. Beregil could have disguised his intent better. If you still want my time when I am done with her, then we shall see. Now go."

Borogor had no choice but to obey. Casting one last apologetic look at Gúthwyn he departed, leaving her alone with Haldor.

She did not even have time to quiver before the Elf was upon her, grabbing her arm and twisting it mercilessly. She gasped, doubling over as he yanked her towards him. "So now you cannot even walk here on your own? That is pathetic. Next time you come here alone, have I made myself clear?"

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered hastily, then cried out as he shoved her onto the ground. Her back connected painfully, causing her to moan softly. Haldor stared down at her, pinning her to the floor with his piercing gaze. When he at last turned towards his bed she scrambled up again, feeling sick.

"So he told you of the trip to Ithilien," Haldor said, sitting down and watching her fixedly. It was not a question.

She stood before him, her arms wrapped around herself against the sudden chill, and nodded.

"Then why are you here?" he asked, his tone saying that her response had better be sufficient. "Arms down."

Startled, Gúthwyn obeyed, immediately feeling naked and exposed. She suddenly realized that only in her first month here had she actually been invited to converse with him. "I-I th-think you… I think you m-made a mistake," she stuttered.

"I do not make mistakes," Haldor said shortly, and Gúthwyn closed her mouth. She could not believe that he actually intended her to go to Ithilien.

"But…"

"On your knees," the Elf unexpectedly ordered, standing up. Remaining where she was, she gazed at him blankly, not sure if she had heard right. Obviously she had, for he took another step towards her. "Do we need a reminder of what happens to disobedient slaves?"

Skittish as a rabbit under the hawk's shadow, she dropped down, wincing as her knees hit the ground. Uncontrollable shivers ran up and down her body as she watched his feet move around her, hearing not a sound as they disappeared behind her back. She felt the beginnings of a panic worm their way into her as the seconds passed.

Cold hands were placed on her neck. Drawing in a sharp breath, she tilted her head up to see him standing nearly on top of her. His knees were pressing into her back. She tried to protest. "I cannot—"

He slapped her. "Speak when you are spoken to," he hissed, ignoring her whimpers. "You are going to Ithilien, whether you want to or not." Squeezing tightly so that she nearly choked, he lifted her up effortlessly by the throat. "My second-in-command will tell you what is required of your minimal expertise." And then he pushed her away.

Tripping over herself, Gúthwyn stumbled for several feet before regaining her balance, just a yard away from the tent flap. She suddenly thought of the children. Not in a million years would she leave them in the dubious care of the other men, especially when not even Borogor would be there to protect them. "No," she said.

Haldor's eyes turned into slits. "No is not an option," he replied, his quiet voice filled with such evil that for a moment she was frozen in place. He drew closer.

"No," she repeated at last, and pivoted around to go, hardly daring to believe that she had just refused Haldor.

She had taken one step towards the door when something whizzed past her ear, brushing softly against the flesh before embedding itself in the narrow wooden post holding up the front of the tent. When it stopped moving, she stared at it. It was an arrow—the fletching had grazed her.

Shaking, she turned back to Haldor. He was holding his bow, a sneer on his face. "Next time I will be sure to hit the target," he said. "Retrieve that arrow for me, will you?"

She knew fully well that it was not a request. Nauseous, thinking almost longingly of being able to vomit into the bucket by her pallet, she approached the arrow. When she was only a foot away, she saw a miniscule carving that she had never noticed before. In fact, she was positive it had not been there a week ago.

Glancing back at Haldor curiously, she was disturbed to see his smirk widen. A feeling of trepidation overcame her as she returned her attention to the carving, leaning in closer to see what it was. Her heart stopped, and then hammered violently in her chest. It was a stick figure of a small child, smiling happily at her. The arrow had pierced right through its left eye.

Her knees buckled, and she clutched at the pole for support, using it to help her face Haldor again. He had moved closer to her, taking advantage of her distraction to do so unnoticed. "It is quite simple, really," the Elf told her, stroking his bow. Gúthwyn's eyes followed his fingers, remembering them tracing over her own skin in the dark. "If you are reluctant to go, which is understandable, then you will have one less child to care for."

She could not think of anything to say, except for: "Why?"

He paused mid-stroke, glancing up from his bow at her.

"Why are you doing this to me?" she continued, her voice a mere whisper. "What have I ever done to you?"

A sudden silence filled the tent as Haldor simply looked at her in disbelief, as though he had just told a joke and she was too stupid to understand it. "Do you think I care about _you_?" he asked amusedly, a spiteful look in his eye. "Do you think this has been about _you_?"

Gúthwyn watched him with her mouth slightly open, at a loss for what to say.

"Do you think I took you to my bed because I _wanted_ you?" Haldor continued, drawing closer. "Because you were _beautiful_ or because you would please me?" He gave a small laugh. "Do you think you were brought here because of your _fighting prowess_? Or that you have survived so far on your own _skill_? Do you think the reason that the men have not raped you witless is because they are _afraid_ of you?"

She was shaking her head, edging away from him. Yet he pursued her, backing her into the corner of the rock wall and the tent canvas.

"What are you doing?" she gasped as he placed one hand on either side of her, preventing all hope of escape. He backhanded her.

"You are an experiment," he hissed. "An experiment on the Dark Lord's part to see if women would be a useful addition to his army. If you succeed, then they will bring them in by the thousands."

For a moment she almost lost control of herself and vomited at the ghastly prospect. Her face turned a nasty shade of pale green. "I will never let another woman come within ten leagues of you," she managed, cringing. She would rather die than be the one to allow them to suffer at Haldor's hands.

"You have no choice," Haldor told her, and then stepped away.

A sinking feeling overwhelmed Gúthwyn as she realized that he was right. Unless she wanted Hammel and Haiweth to perish, she had to play by Haldor's game and obey his rules. She sank slowly to the floor, burying her face in her hands. Her one consolation was that Éowyn would never have to be put through this.

"Get up," Haldor said softly. Trembling and cringing, she complied. With a snarl he hit her again. A cry escaped her as her head struck the rock wall. An instant later, the Elf had kicked her wavering legs out from underneath her. She crashed to the ground, landing in a pitiful heap.

Tears were brimming in her eyes. Panicking, she blinked them back as swiftly as she was able, staring downwards lest he should see.

"Get up," Haldor repeated.

Gúthwyn pressed her hand to her now bleeding temple. She did not want to get up. She wanted someone, anyone—even Lumren—to save her.

But no one did. "Get up," Haldor hissed, a dangerous edge to his voice. Hesitantly she pushed herself up and rose.

Something exploded on her chin, sending her flying backwards into the wall. This time she screamed, curling up as small as possible and wrapping her arms around her head. The taste of blood was on her lips.

"Get up!" Haldor roared at her, and she lost it. Shrieking in fright, Gúthwyn scrambled to her feet and ducked under his swinging fist, running for the door. She made it two steps before she was grabbed by the waist and lifted off of her feet. Canvas and rock swam in front of her eyes as she was hurled to the ground. The resulting blow nearly knocked her unconscious.

"You do not run away from me!" he yelled at her. "Running away is for cowards!"

She whimpered as she saw him approaching. _Please let this be over with…_ Hysteria was rising up within her.

His hands closed around her arms, hauling her up so that she could not touch the ground. Her breath was coming in short gasps.

"I like playing with you," he whispered, a wild gleam in his eye. "You are like wet clay in my hands… easily shaped or broken."

Gúthwyn shuddered as he drew her to him, pressing her body against his. She tried to wiggle away, but it was futile. Low laughs echoed in her ears as he murmured, "It has been nearly a week since I last saw you… I have almost forgotten how good it feels to have a woman struggling against me."

Hot anger and embarrassment welled within her, yet she stilled her movements in fear of him getting any ideas. Haldor easily guessed her intent, his chuckles becoming more pronounced. "Borogor is waiting for you outside," he said. "Do you think I should make him listen while I have you? Or should I bring him in to watch?"

Frantically she shook her head. "No…" she moaned, horror seizing her at the very thought.

"Not today?" Haldor asked her, running a hand slowly down her back. She stiffened, against her will arching into him as his fingers reached lower.

With a sudden motion she was released, landing roughly on the ground and almost stumbling back into him. Relief flooded her: He would do nothing today. She was safe.

Safe, however, was a relative term—as Haldor turned away, he called over his shoulder, "You will see me the night of your return."

Hastily Gúthwyn nodded, even though he could not see her. He seemed to take her silence for acquiescence, and dismissed her with a wave of his hand.

All but running for the tent flap, she burst out to see that Borogor was indeed waiting for her. He had sat down on the ground, but stood up as she came towards him. "You are bleeding," he said concernedly.

"Not now," she told him shakily, meeting his brown eyes for a second before looking away. "Please, let us get away from here…"

He inclined his head, and both were subdued as they began making their way back to their tent. Though it was springtime, and the days were getting longer, no amount of sunlight could pierce the smog of Mordor for an extended period. The skies were dark; Gúthwyn kept close to Borogor as they walked, not wishing to become separated.

Their mutual quiet was broken when they arrived outside the tent. Here Borogor turned to her, and taking a rag out of his pouch told her to be still. Ignoring her protests, he wet the cloth with a few drops of water from his canteen. "What did he do?" he inquired, a dark undertone to his voice as he tenderly began dabbing at the cuts.

She winced as her lip stung. "He told me… he told me that I was an experiment. T-that if I did well, they would bring more women into the army."

Borogor did not say anything, and a sudden thought came to her. "Did you know of this?" she asked, pushing his hand away.

He looked at her. "Yes," he admitted, frowning. "That was why I gave the warning to the men on your first day here."

It hurt—more than Gúthwyn cared to think—to know that he had not done it out of the goodness of his heart. She stepped back from him. "What else have to done to protect me, not because we are friends, but because you were afraid of what Haldor would do to you if I died?"

"Gúthwyn…" he said wearily.

"Just tell me," she whispered, folding her arms across her stomach. She could feel her hipbones jutting into her skin, and wondered how long it had been since she had had a proper meal.

"You would not believe me if I did," he replied, and made to finish with the rag.

She backed out of his reach, and he sighed. "Nothing."

"Nothing?" she repeated, bitterness injecting itself into her voice.

"Nothing," Borogor confirmed simply, and closed the gap between them. Gúthwyn closed her eyes as he cleaned her temple wound, trying not to show emotion as it burned. Her mind was racing with confused thoughts. She did not know what to believe. He had tried to warn her about Haldor, which surely the Elf had not wanted him to do… Yet just a minute past he had confessed to acting on others' orders rather than concern for her welfare. And five months ago, he had tortured her. She wanted to believe him, but it seemed that revelations tainting his honesty kept turning up.

With a sigh, Gúthwyn opened her eyes to see Borogor moving back from her. "Done," he said.

"Thank you," she responded haltingly, searching his gaze for the answers to her questions.

Borogor gently took her hands, raising them slightly. "Even if your life was not valued so much, I would still do everything in my power to keep you alive."

Her resistance was melting away. He would withhold secrets from her, but he would never lie. "Thank you," she said once more.

He looked surprised. "For what?"

"For everything," she replied, and softly disengaging herself from him, stepped inside the tent.


	36. Happy Birthday III

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Five:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-Five**

The horn sounded, signaling the end of yet another long day, and Gúthwyn sighed in relief. Despite the fact that her swordsmanship had been remarkably enhanced, thanks to Borogor's persistent training schedule, she was extremely worn out. All she wanted to do was gather the children, get back to the tent, and sleep.

_So much for an exciting seventeenth birthday,_ she thought, feeling rather miserable. She had not told anyone about the date, not even Borogor, because doing so would only make it seem like she was looking for attention. And she certainly received enough of that.

Resigning herself to a night of painful memories and little sleep, she began looking for the children. Squinting in the darkness, she tried to make out their small forms, calling out after a moment. Eventually she could distinguish them, wending their way tiredly amongst the soldiers towards her.

"Hammel, Haiweth," she greeted them as they came before her, Haiweth leaning against her leg. She picked the girl up and started rocking her back and forth, glancing around in hope of seeing Borogor. As much as she did not want to rely on someone, she felt much safer with him around.

Luckily for her he soon materialized, Beregil at his side. "Are you ready to go back?" he inquired.

"Yes," Gúthwyn replied emphatically, and reached down for Hammel's hand.

The boy was not there.

"What is it?" Beregil asked as she whirled around in a panic, still holding Haiweth.

"Hammel!" she exclaimed anxiously. "I just had him, and now he—"

"Is right here," a smooth voice finished, and a tall, thin figure emerged from the shadows. Gúthwyn nearly fainted when she saw Hammel's hand wrapped in the Elf's.

"Haldor," she said nervously, keeping her eyes on Hammel. The boy seemed remarkably calm, watching their exchange disinterestedly. "Haldor, what are you doing?" Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Borogor step up beside her.

His second-in-command's presence had no effect on the Elf, who merely smiled. "I am going to need some of Hammel's time tonight," he said. "Alone."

"Well, you cannot have it," she retorted, reaching out for the boy.

"It was not a request," Haldor answered, stopping her short. She paled.

"Haldor," she whispered, "give him back!"

"We will be occupied for less than an hour," he said, his eyes taking a cruel delight in her distress.

"My lord," Borogor interrupted, "will you please listen to her? What you are doing is not necessary."

The Elf turned his cold gaze on him. "We will be occupied for less than an hour," he repeated. "I think Gúthwyn's nerves can survive that long." Then he turned to Hammel. "Are you ready?" he questioned.

"Yes," the boy replied, looking up at Haldor in awe.

Gúthwyn felt her world slipping away from her. The Elf was taking the child. Not just _the_ child—_her _child. Frantically she went over all their recent encounters, trying to figure out what she was being punished for. Breathing was becoming difficult. _No, calm down,_ she told herself. She still had Haiweth in her arms.

And then, screeching into her mind, came the heart-stopping possibility: What if only one of them came back?

She suddenly lunged forward, forgetting that she was holding Haiweth, forgetting that Haldor was much stronger than even Borogor, forgetting that she was risking her own life. All she cared about was getting Hammel back.

"_Gúthwyn, no!_" Borogor hissed, grabbing hold of her waist and pulling her back. She struggled against him feverishly.

"Let go of me!" she demanded, feeling hysteria wrap itself tightly around her. He refused, keeping a firm grip on her. "Haldor!" she cried. Haiweth began whimpering.

Unexpectedly, Hammel slipped out of Haldor's grasp, coming up to Gúthwyn and patting her hand. "Do not worry," he said simply, and then turned his back on her.

She stood, frozen in Borogor's arms, as he came once more to the Elf. Haldor smirked at her triumphantly before taking Hammel's hand. Together, the unlikely pair walked away, neither one of them looking back.

"I cannot believe it…" she gasped, feeling sick and holding Haiweth tighter. "How _could_ he?" Her knees were giving out.

"Steady!" Borogor grunted as she collapsed into him. Haiweth squirmed out of her clutch, sliding onto the ground and worming away faster than her panicked eye could follow.

Beregil leaped forward and caught the girl by the shoulders, picking her up and awkwardly carrying her. The unexpected change caught her by surprise, and she was silent.

Gúthwyn tried to stand on her own feet, but she could not support herself. "What is he going to do to him?" she moaned. "What if he—"

"Do not think that way," Borogor told her, holding her close as she shook violently. "It will only make things worse."

"But he could be—"

"Hush," Borogor said. "Try to relax. Hammel will return to you safe and sound, you have my word."

Despite his pacifying speech, her heartbeat grew faster. Hammel was somewhere out in the night, in the company of the most dangerous being she had ever met in her life. All on his own, with no one to protect him. He would die. Maybe he was already dead.

As the thought came to her, she heard a cry burst into the night air. It was shrill and terrified, and with it came a speeding blackness. An invisible hand had pulled on the shades in her mind, and as they came rolling down she felt her spirit removing itself from its bodily imprisonment. She wavered, and then fainted.

* * *

When she came to, it took her several moments to become aware of her surroundings. At first everything was merely a blur, interrupted by a sole explosion of light in the corner of her eye. She groaned in confusion, realizing that she was lying down somewhere.

"Gúthwyn?" Borogor's voice drifted into her ears, now quiet, now annoyingly loud. She winced, attempting to sit up. A hand pressed on her shoulder, forcing her onto her back again. She did not protest.

"Where am I?" she murmured blearily, rubbing her eyes. Some of her vision cleared, and she could see Borogor's face staring down worriedly. Was that Haiweth speaking in the background?

"In our tent," he replied. Gúthwyn shook her head, trying to collect herself and remember what had happened. She looked over to her side, expecting to see Hammel and Haiweth in the pallet next to her. But it was only the girl, chatting animatedly with Beregil.

Suddenly the details of Hammel's absence came rushing back to her, and with a choked gasp she flung herself upward. Before Borogor had time to get a hold on her shoulder she leaped to her feet. "Has he returned yet?" she almost shouted.

Haiweth jumped at the sound of her angry tone and cowered. Lowering her voice slightly, Gúthwyn pressed on urgently. "_Has he?_"

"No," Borogor replied. "You have only been out for half an hour."

"A remarkably quiet half an hour," Lumren sneered. Gúthwyn ignored him.

"I have to go out and look for him," she said, and made to move past Borogor. He stepped in front of her.

"Absolutely not," he responded.

She tried to pass him, but he kept shifting so that all of her attempts failed. "Move!" she exclaimed furiously.

"Would you mind?" Sîdhadan shouted from where he lay on his pallet. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

"Sit down," Borogor told her. "My apologies," he said to the Gondorian. Sîdhadan looked slightly mollified, and rolled over on his side.

Gúthwyn repressed the urge to punch Borogor, shocked by his ignorant attitude. Once again she tried to get past him, but this time he grabbed her arm painfully.

"You are frightening Haiweth and disturbing my men," he hissed. "Sit down."

She cared not what the other men thought, but a glance at Haiweth's terrified form convinced her to shakily follow his instructions. Burying her face in her hands, she tried to stop herself from thinking of all the worst fates that could be Hammel's.

"Gúthwyn, you are making this much more difficult than it should be," Borogor told her. Looking up, she saw that he had kneeled down beside her.

"You do not understand," she managed to get out. "You have no idea how I feel!"

"Helpless," he said at once. "Powerless. As though you should have done something, no matter how inevitable it was. As though it was your fault—in every moment there was a way you could have prevented it, if only you had taken the initiative. You are frantic with worry, going through all of the worst things that could happen, praying that none of them do. Take all of those feelings and multiply them by a hundred, and that would be something close to it."

She stared at him. "Yes," she whispered at last.

"That is how I feel," he told her, "every time Haldor calls you to his tent."

It was the kindest thing anyone had said to her in months, and she was temporarily dumbstruck. "I-I… I am not sure what to say," she replied blankly, looking up at him uncertainly.

"You do not have to say anything," he replied, and fixed her with his eyes. "Hammel will be fine, I know it."

His tone was confident, but all the same Gúthwyn could not help fretting for the next half hour. Haiweth watched her nervously, but it was beyond her to comfort the girl when she could not even help herself. Wild images kept flooding through her mind, most revolving around Hammel's body lying on the ground, broken and bleeding, the limbs twisted irregularly and the light gone from his eyes. Before the time was up, she had vomited twice in the bucket.

Almost an hour had passed before Hammel returned, walking into the tent with something in his hand. An overwhelming mixture of relief and apprehension entered Gúthwyn as the boy made his way to her.

"Hammel," she whispered, and enveloped the boy in a fierce hug. "Thank the Valar you are back." She felt light-headed and dizzy. "What did the two of you do?"

"I cannot tell you," Hammel replied seriously, and for a moment she stared at him uncomprehendingly. "It is a secret."

Suddenly fearful, she looked down at the object he was holding. It was a wooden carving of a child—much like what Haldor had shot an arrow into. "Did he give this to you?" she asked warily.

"Yes," the boy answered, and held it out for her inspection. She took it, and realized that it came with a miniature bow and arrow. As though she were in a dream, she held the arrow and put it to the left eye, where there was a tiny hole. It was a perfect fit.

She jumped, and reached out for him. The toy clattered onto the ground. "What happened on your walk?" she asked urgently, her hands on his shoulders.

Hammel wrenched himself from her grasp and picked up the toy. "It is a secret," he said, a hint of anger in his voice. "He told me not to tell you."

"Well, some secrets cannot be kept," Gúthwyn retorted. "I need you to tell me what happened."

"No," Hammel replied flatly.

"Hammel!" she cried in exasperation and anxiety. "This is important!"

"No," he repeated.

A shadow fell over the two of them, and Gúthwyn glanced up to see Borogor. He crouched down and explained, calmly and patiently, to Hammel, "She is worried for your safety. Will you ease her fears by telling the secret? She will not breathe a word to anyone."

"No," Hammel said firmly, and when she looked into the boy's eyes she knew she would not get anything from him.

Abruptly she stood up, making her decision and feeling all the more nauseous for it. "I am going to see Haldor," she told Borogor, and immediately he rose.

"Gúthwyn, I do not think that is a good idea," he said. "Hammel has returned safe—that is all we need to know. I am willing to bet all I own that he is doing this to bait you. Please, do not go."

His tone was low and urgent; more than anything she wanted to listen to him, but she could not ignore the chance of him being wrong. "I have to," she replied, trembling.

Borogor took her hands. "No, you do not," he argued. "I fear you are falling right into a trap."

"See you soon," she said, trying to keep her voice steady. Eyes downcast, she pulled away and turned towards the tent flap. Taking a deep breath, she stiffened her resolve and put one foot in front of the other, at last pushing aside the canvas and stepping outside.

For a terrifying instant she could not see anything, but then her eyes grew used to the dark and she could identify the flickering torches in the distance. They helped her find her way as she walked to Haldor's tent, haste marking her movements, fear evident in her features. _Think of Hammel,_ she told herself, but when she arrived at the Elf's tent she could not muster the courage to call out.

She stood there for a full minute, shifting her balance ever so often, debating with herself what she should do. _I can turn back right now,_ she thought. _I can turn back right now and never know what happened. Borogor is probably right—I am only making a fool of myself by coming here._

Yet the nagging part of her, the part that cared deeply for the children's well being, said otherwise. _Haldor could have done anything,_ it warned. _If you do not investigate now, you will not be able to prevent whatever else he might start doing in the future._

The thought was too much for her to refute, and she opened her mouth.

"Come in."

Gúthwyn jumped at the sound of the Elf's voice, instantly regretting her decision. Quaking from head to foot, she stepped reluctantly into his tent. A lantern was in the corner, housing a flame that burned merrily. The light from it threw Haldor's face into sharp relief, and her heart thumped wildly in her chest. _Remember Hammel._

"What did you do to him?" she asked, approaching the Elf cautiously. He was lying on his bed, but at her question pushed himself up and swiveled around so that his feet were resting on the ground. He did not appear remotely surprised.

"Did he not tell you?" he replied, the shadow of a grin flickering on his face.

"You ordered him to keep it a secret," she said, gritting her teeth.

"And I suppose you want to know it?"

She nodded, and Haldor stood up. The very action seemed to magnify his height so that he was towering over her.

"Just how much?" he asked softly.

Gúthwyn closed her eyes, and when she opened them he was just a foot away from her. "What do you want?" she returned, attempting to disguise her dread, folding her arms over her stomach and standing her ground.

He smiled wickedly, then raised his arms and pushed her so that she stumbled back into the wall. "Do you still want to know?"

"Yes," she said, regaining her balance and shivering against the rock. Already her back, which had just recovered from its latest ordeal, was aching.

Haldor was drawing nearer to her by the second. She let him come, trying to keep her eyes focused on his armor stand rather than his face. Yet then she gasped, for with one hand he had grabbed a fistful of her hair at the base of her skull; the other he pressed into her stomach, keeping her pinned against the wall. Effortlessly he twisted her head back so that their eyes were inches apart.

"Do you still want to know?" he asked again. Gúthwyn cringed, but nodded.

"Yes," she whispered.

A burst of pain originated from her head as she was lifted up by it, so that her face was now level with Haldor's. She felt his hand sliding down to her pants and gulped.

"How about now?" the Elf asked, his blue eyes daring her to ask him to stop. She nodded, knowing that there was no going back.

Her pants fell to the floor, followed by a second rustle that she realized to be Haldor's. Burning with terror and shame, she looked up at the ceiling, determinedly avoiding his gaze. But he merely pulled her head down again. "Watch," he commanded.

A second later she gasped as he entered her, groaning as she was pressed against the wall. With a savage brutality he drove in and out of her, making his movements rougher as she whimpered in fright. She felt the familiar pain growing within her. Every thrust hurt more than the last. _For Hammel,_ she reminded herself, wincing as Haldor humiliated her, trying to make believe that this was not happening.

And then he let go of her, so that it was only his body holding her up. Caught wildly off balance, Gúthwyn was forced to grab onto his shoulders to avoid falling. Somehow her legs had wrapped around his hips, and she repressed a sob as she realized what she must look like. _No wonder the men call me a whore,_ she thought bitterly, biting back a shriek when Haldor pushed into her. The Elf was showing no signs of stopping.

For five more agonizing minutes he violated her, caring not when she moaned or cried out in pain. She sensed the end was coming as his thrusts became more rapid—then she pretended that she could not feel the liquid running down her legs when he pulled out of her for the final time. Instead she panted heavily, shuddering violently as she realized that her limbs were still entwined about him. She was worse than a peasant girl cavorting with a married man behind the stables.

She did not have time to prize herself away from Haldor before he dropped her, letting her fall half-naked onto the ground. Dirty, bruised, and utterly disgraced, she dazedly remained where she was.

Suddenly Haldor grabbed her neck, pulling her up so that their faces nearly met. "The boy spent the entire time watching me as I carved the toy," he hissed in her ear. "The only thing he said to me was thank you and no, when I asked him if anyone else had given him something to play with. A rather boring child, but no doubt you already knew that."

With that he released her, and she fell down once more. With a hideous surge of self-loathing she saw that Borogor had spoken the truth. Nothing had happened to Hammel. Haldor had been merely using him to bait her, and she had played right into his hands.

Shaking horribly, she stared up at him. "You are so predictable," he whispered. "I knew you would come running in here for the information, and you did not disappoint me."

The bile rose in her throat. Her shoulders slumped in defeat, she reached out for her leggings. She did not want to go back and tell Borogor how easily she had been manipulated, but anything was better than staying here.

Haldor's foot stomped down on the fabric, narrowly missing her own hand. "This little escapade of yours does not excuse you from our next meeting," he informed her, making it clear that the incident had been her fault from the beginning, as though he were a parent having to discipline a rowdy child. She realized that he was right: If she had only heeded Borogor's warning, none of this would have happened.

"Yes," she mumbled, hanging her head.

He still did not remove his foot. "Yes, _what?_" he asked.

"Yesmylord," she replied, stringing it all into one word so that her humiliation would end quicker. It had been a year since she looked into a mirror, yet she knew that if she had now her face would have been beet red.

He stared down at her. "I will have you begging yet," he said softly, and stepped away.

Hastily Gúthwyn retrieved her pants, standing up to put them on. Haldor had turned his back on her, no longer interested, and she took it as her cue to leave. Her feet slapped at the ground as she ran from the tent, hearing his chilling laugh fade into the night. This day had been horrible—she nearly wanted to cry at how bad it was. Angrily she pinched herself as she slowed down before her tent, using the pain as a distraction against her grieving heart.

It took pure strength of will, of which she had little, to walk back into the tent and tell Borogor how terribly wrong she had been. When she finally ducked inside, just about everyone was asleep. The only sound she could hear was their steady breathing. They were clearly untroubled by anything. She envied them sorely as she walked dejectedly to her pallet. This had been the worst birthday of her entire life, including even the fateful day of her capture. At least then she had been unconscious for most of the time.

A sudden rustling noise met her ears, and she twisted around to see Borogor sitting up. Wincing, she opened her mouth to tell him what had happened, but he placed his finger over his lips. Quietly extricating himself from his blanket, he made his way over her, taking care to not wake up any of the others. "What did he do?" he whispered when he arrived, sitting down next to her.

Once again she sighed. "It was nothing, just like you said." Misery overwhelmed her. Why had she not listened to Borogor? Why had she convinced herself that Haldor had done something sinister to Hammel, when the boy had returned safely and without a scratch?

Her despair must have been plainly written across her face, for Borogor told her gently, "Do not blame yourself. You did what you thought was right."

To her horror, she felt a huge lump forming in her throat. Why today, of all days? Haldor did not even know its significance, yet he had managed to ruin it for her anyway.

"Gúthwyn?"

She turned to Borogor, her vision blurry with tears. Angrily she wiped them from her eyes, looking away in shame as she struggled to gain control of her emotions. "It is nothing," she muttered, staring down at her knees. She had drawn them in to her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible.

He was silent, and suddenly as her sadness pitched to unknown depths, Gúthwyn burst out, "Today was my seventeenth birthday." She did not know why she said it; yet suddenly it seemed vital to the conversation, for Borogor to truly understand what was going through her at the moment.

His eyes widened in shock as he looked at her, and then were filled with sympathy as she buried her face in her hands. "It has been awful," she whispered. A great weariness was unexpectedly weaving its way into her. "I just… I just wanted today to… to be uneventful. Was that so much to ask?" She almost lost it then, and she could not stop her shoulders from heaving up and down.

Gently, hesitantly, Borogor's arm wrapped around her shoulders, drawing her close when she did not protest. "Tomorrow will be better," he promised. "We have the afternoon off, remember?"

She nodded, but both of them knew that the training schedule was the least of her concerns. "I-I think I am going to go to bed now," she said. It had to be nearly midnight, and her mood would only be worsened if she was too tired to fight in the morning.

Patting her shoulder comfortingly, Borogor stood up and bade her good night. "Sleep well," he added quietly.

"The same to you," she replied, and began stretching out beside the children.

"Gúthwyn?"

She glanced up at Borogor.

"Happy birthday," he said, and turned away.


	37. Unwanted Child

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Six:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

With a sigh, Borogor leaned back against the canvas tent wall, watching absent-mindedly the flickering light of the lantern. It was at the other end of the tent, where Gúthwyn and the children slept; yet they were not here, Gúthwyn having taken them to relieve themselves behind the rocks.

At the thought of his friend, he frowned. A month had passed since the day of her seventeenth birthday, and things were only getting worse. She could hardly sleep. She barely ate. And fear haunted her eyes, so acute that he could barely stand to look at them. Haldor was continuing with his punishments, refusing to yield until he had broken her. Borogor did not dare interfere, as he knew what the price would be if he did.

He wished desperately that there was something he could do for her, but he was powerless against Haldor. His only hope was that their lessons, stolen hours in the dark night, helped her take her mind off of her problems, even if it was only for a little while. Yet it hardly seemed enough. He found that his loathing of Haldor was growing to alarming heights, to the point where the mere sight of the Elf made him want to put his sword to good use.

"Borogor?"

Glancing up, he saw Dîrbenn coming towards him, carrying some of the meat in his hands. Borogor gratefully accepted the offered slice, having had nothing to eat since noon.

"You look troubled," Dîrbenn commented, sitting down beside him. "Is something wrong?"

Another sigh escaped the second-in-command, but he was all too aware of how close they were to Lumren. Lowering his voice, he said, "I was just thinking about Gúthwyn."

"Ah." Dîrbenn tore of a chunk of the meat and put it in his mouth. In between chews, he asked quietly, "Where is she?"

"With the children," Borogor said, relieved that Haldor would not be calling her to his tent tonight: She had just been there a couple of days ago.

A silence now lingered between the two friends, though it was not uncomfortable. Borogor's gaze wandered around the tent, and landed with a smile on Beregil. The young man had fallen asleep almost instantly, not even bothering to eat beforehand. Yet Borogor would not wake him up to do so—his face was peaceful, and his breathing steady. It was not a rest that he wanted to disturb.

At that moment, the tent flap opened, and Gúthwyn walked in, looking as tired as Haiweth whom she held in her arms. Hammel was silent, as usual, but Haiweth was keeping up a small stream of inane chatter. He managed to hear, "Want to go sleep."

"I know, Haiweth," Gúthwyn murmured, rubbing the girl's back. Her gaze met Borogor's briefly, and she gave a small smile that was not at all reflected in her eyes.

Wondering if something had happened, Borogor watched her closely as she made her way to the two pallets. He could not help noticing that Lumren's eyes followed her as well, and his fists clenched. The man never troubled to conceal his lust; Sîdhadan had told him that, whenever he and Gúthwyn were absent from the tent, he made several lewd remarks about her. His blood boiled as he recalled some of the things the Gondorian had repeated to him. If Lumren so much as whispered them in his presence, he would rip the man's tongue out of his mouth.

Yet Gúthwyn was aware of little, if anything, regarding Lumren's interest in her. For this he was glad, as he did not want to pile any more worries on her. And as he observed her, he began thinking that something was off about her motions: She seemed terse and jumpy, even more so than usual. His brow knitted in concern.

Gradually, sleep began to take its grip on the tent. The children were the first to succumb to it, and one by one the other men started drifting off. Gúthwyn was lying down, but he knew she was not asleep, and doubted that she had so much as closed her eyes. He remained sitting, his mind turning over many of the problems that plagued him. So absorbed did he become in his musings that he did not see when Gúthwyn stood up, and only noticed her when she started walking towards him.

"Borogor," she whispered, her face in the light of the lantern ashen. "May I talk to you?"

He stood up, sensing that whatever was troubling her, she was reluctant to say it in the tent. "Where do you want to go?" he asked quietly.

"Behind the rocks," she replied, folding her arms across her stomach. She did not look at him afterwards, and hastily made her way towards the flap. Disturbed, Borogor followed her. Soon they were striding across the empty grounds towards the rocks, neither of them saying a word to each other.

When they had at last reached their destination, Gúthwyn turned to him. His eyes widened to see the wild panic that now adorned her face.

"Gúthwyn, what happened?" he questioned urgently, hating the sight of her so terrified.

For a long time, she did not answer him. A great agitation was upon her; she began pacing, seeming to be working up the courage to speak. Utterly confused, he watched her, praying that whatever it was had nothing to do with Haldor.

"Borogor," she at last said, turning back to him and drawing close, "I am late."

The meaning of her statement was lost on him, and he looked at her in puzzlement. Gúthwyn's face tightened. Taking a deep breath, she muttered, "My courses."

His breath caught in his throat as he realized what she was talking about—and then, in horror, what the implications were. "A-Are you sure?" he asked unsteadily.

"They were due a week ago!" she cried out, her voice rising hysterically. Borogor's stomach twisted.

"Have… have you told Haldor yet?" he questioned.

Frantically, she shook her head. "I cannot have his child!" she gasped, her face screwing up as if she were about to cry. "He would take it from me, assuming I even survived the birth! He would ruin it! A-And I am only seventeen!"

"Gúthwyn, listen to me," Borogor said firmly, putting his hands on her shoulders and looking directly into her eyes. "You are panicking."

"What do you expect me to do?" she nearly shrieked, trembling uncontrollably.

"You might get your courses next month," Borogor tried to reason, ignoring the nausea that swept over him at the thought of Gúthwyn carrying a child in Mordor. "Have you ever missed them before?"

"W-When I was younger," she admitted, her chest rising up and down erratically. "But not for years!" Her face crumpled. "Borogor, I cannot do this!"

"You are right about that," Borogor said grimly, hardly daring to imagine what Haldor would do if he found out that he was a father. "The only use Haldor has for a child is to blackmail you. We both know this."

She nodded, and with a sharp pang he saw that her eyes were glistening. "He will kill it!" she choked. "He will kill Hammel and Haiweth! He will kill me when I have to stop training!"

"Gúthwyn, stop it!" Borogor ordered, shaking her shoulders. "You do not know for sure if you are pregnant!"

"How can I _not_ be?" she retorted, trying to pull away from him. Borogor tightened his grip.

"You do not know for sure," he repeated, willing himself to remain calm. "It is not unheard of for a woman to skip their courses once in awhile, correct?"

"C-Correct," she said, her voice so frail that he had to lean closer to hear it. "But—"

"Then you might not be with his child," he told her, praying that she was not. "Please, wait another month to make sure. It could be that all your worries turn to naught."

"What if I _am_ with child?" she demanded shrilly. "I cannot deliver a baby in this place! We will both die! And what would happen to Hammel and Haiweth?"

"Gúthwyn, no one said that you were going to be giving birth," Borogor said, lowering his voice.

"W-What do you mean?" she asked in bafflement, the tears in her eyes threatening to spill over.

Quietly, Borogor told her, "Haldor cannot risk you having a child. He will be the one who faces the wrath of Sauron for his conduct. And I am telling you that, should he find out that you are pregnant, he will not hesitate to cut the baby out if that is what he has to do."

Gúthwyn gasped in horror, pressing a hand to her mouth and looking as if she were about to faint. "H-How _could_ he?" she whispered, a tear hovering at the corner of her eyelashes. Almost instinctively, he reached out to gently wipe it away; though she cringed, she made no move to stop him.

"He does not care about you," Borogor said, hating the words as they fell from his mouth. "He only cares for himself. Whatever you do, you must not tell him."

"But he will find out!" she cried, her face turning white at the thought.

Borogor shook his head. "I promise you, he will not. If another month goes by without your courses, let me know. I will speak to Dîrbenn: He is trustworthy, and he used to be a healer. He might remember the herbs that one uses to rid oneself of an unwanted child."

"A-An abortion?" she gulped, gazing up at him nervously.

"Yes," Borogor confirmed, inwardly wincing. It was such a simple thing to say, yet he knew that it was hardly so.

Gúthwyn swallowed hard, and then asked, "H-How can you be… be sure that… you can get the herbs?"

"My name carries some influence at the Tower," he informed her. "Not much, but it is enough to get supplies when there is need. I do not think it will be too difficult to order them with raising suspicion."

She nodded, though her face was contorting as if she were about to burst into tears at any moment. "C-C-Can you imagine w-what my brother would think?" she instead choked out.

"He would understand," Borogor murmured reassuringly. "This is not your fault, Gúthwyn."

With a low moan, she leaned forward, and Borogor wrapped his arms around her frail body. "I do not want his child!" she gasped against his chest, her words hitching and catching on her hoarse voice. "I will never be rid of him!"

Borogor held her tightly, and listened as she siphoned off all of her panic onto him. His heart was twisting for his poor friend, who had done nothing to deserve all that was heaped upon her. He did not mention his feelings to her, but he would have given anything to ensure that she did not give birth to a child. He did not think she would survive the birth: She was too thin, her hips not nearly wide enough.

Gúthwyn fell silent. Small shudders were running uncontrollably through her. "Do not worry," he said quietly. "I promise, this will pass without him knowing."

"He will find out," she whispered raggedly, shaking her head. "He always finds out!"

"He has not found out about our lessons," Borogor reminded her, his eye following the path of a torch that had emerged amidst the tents. "And they have been going on for almost a year."

Gúthwyn drew a shaky breath. "W-What would he do if he discovered them?"

Borogor smiled grimly. "I would rather not cloud the practices with such thoughts."

For several minutes they did not speak. Borogor kept his arms around her, knowing that she needed support—nor did she pull away. His gaze began fixing on the torch that he had seen. What on Middle-earth was someone doing up at this hour? It was growing brighter, clearly making its way towards the training grounds.

That was when he saw it: A flash of golden hair, a glimpse of a sharp and cruel profile.

"Gúthwyn," he hissed. "Haldor is out of his tent."

She stiffened horribly, and looked up at him with terror-filled eyes. "What?" she asked, beginning to shake like a leaf in the fall winds.

"Come!" he said, releasing her. She whimpered. "Gúthwyn, if he sees us in this place, we will never be able to meet here again!"

"So you want us to show ourselves?" she demanded in horror.

"I would bet you all I own that he is looking for us," Borogor replied. He did not know how the Elf had become aware of their absences, but he had his ways.

Even with such danger hanging over their heads, Gúthwyn was—understandably—reluctant to move. Eventually he took her by the arm and led her from behind the rocks. "Pretend that we are just walking," he muttered in her ear as the torch paused for the briefest second, and then started moving towards them. "I will do the explaining."

She did not speak, seemingly not able to. A thin film of sweat was forming on her brow. Borogor shifted slightly so that he blocked her from Haldor's view, more for her benefit than anything. They continued moving along the training grounds, appearing as if they had taken no notice of the Elf. His own heart was hammering in his chest; he could only begin to fathom what Gúthwyn's was doing.

They had hardly gone ten yards before a harsh voice echoed over the grounds. "Borogor!"

Borogor came to a stop, simultaneously letting go of Gúthwyn. He hated to do such a thing in a situation like this, but there were too many consequences of Haldor seeing the gesture. As it was, Haldor's eyes were dangerously narrowed as he strode towards them, his face growing clearer under the light of his torch. Gúthwyn wrapped her arms around her stomach, looking as if she were going to be sick.

"Well, well, well," Haldor said as he approached them. Gúthwyn flinched. "I must confess myself surprised to find company on my stroll. To what do I owe this occurrence?"

"Gúthwyn had a nightmare," Borogor answered shortly, his hands curling into fists.

"A nightmare?" Haldor breathed, glee dancing in his eyes. "How dreadful." He turned to Gúthwyn, who cowered under the intensity of his gaze. "And what, pray tell, was it about?"

"I think you should know, my lord," Borogor said, keeping all but the barest hint of coolness out of his tone.

For a moment, Haldor regarded him. Then he looked at Gúthwyn, and spat, "You, slave, come here."

Gúthwyn froze, every muscle in her body taut.

"Do it," Haldor snarled angrily, "or I will go back to your tent and fetch one of the children."

Starting, Gúthwyn edged forward, quivering in fear. It was even more noticeable than usual. Borogor himself wondered what Haldor would do, and had to battle every instinct in his body to protect his friend. He did not doubt that the Elf enjoyed the sight of both of them squirming, his second-in-command hardly less than the woman.

Gúthwyn was about a foot away from Haldor when he grabbed her by the throat, lifting her up effortlessly. She gasped in pain, trying to wriggle away from him, but his grip was too strong. Borogor watched helplessly as Haldor stared at her, daunting her with his piercing eyes. She began twitching, unable to stop herself. The Elf did not relent; Borogor could almost see the monster's eyes burning holes into his friend's mind.

"Haldor," he said at length, his voice stern. He could not stand to see the way Gúthwyn was all but convulsing in his commander's grasp, nor bear to hear the frantic breaths escaping her lips.

Haldor merely looked at him, and a sinking feeling in his gut told him that he had overstepped his boundaries. He was right: Without warning, Haldor set Gúthwyn down and backhanded her across the face. The action was so unexpected and strong that she crumpled to the ground, her hands flying out to absorb her fall. She attempted to get up, but the Elf's boot stomped down onto her back. And then she gasped, for Haldor reached down and grabbed the top of her neck, using it to drive her face into the dirt.

Borogor tensed in fury, loathing how helpless Gúthwyn was; yet Haldor's eyes were smirking at him triumphantly, as if daring him to do something. He could not take the bait.

"Well done, Borogor," Haldor murmured after a moment, ignoring Gúthwyn's futile struggles against him. He shifted his grip down to her arm and hauled her up. "Leave us," he ordered, shoving her away from him.

Gúthwyn cast a frightened look at both of them, her face covered in dirt. After a few seconds, she turned on her heel and ran, sprinting into the darkness of the night. Her fear of Haldor was by far greater than the shadows.

Her small figure had barely disappeared when Haldor stalked towards Borogor and grabbed his right arm, pressing tightly downward. "You grow bold, Borogor," the commander hissed. "How many times have I told you not to interfere when I am punishing her?"

""I am sorry, my lord," Borogor said woodenly, trying not to cringe as the pain in his arm reached excruciating heights.

Haldor's gaze was foul. "The threat of Beregil's life seems to deter you little: You cast it aside all too willingly to protect her."

Borogor could think of nothing to say, and decided it was best to remain quiet.

"Why do you do it?" Haldor asked, his voice soft, yet cold as steel. "Why are you always the one trying to protect her, foolish as the task is?"

"Because she is my friend," Borogor said curtly, "and someone has to. You know that."

"Do you do it to spite me?" Haldor pressed, his eyes narrowed slits. "If you are going down that road, then be prepared for the consequences."

"I have done nothing with the intent of spiting you," Borogor replied, keeping his voice even. "But I will not stand aside and let her deal with what you have done to her on her own."

Haldor's eyes flashed. "Learn to," he hissed, tightening his clutch on the second-in-command's arm, "or you will find yourself faced with the choice of either killing one of those children or taking her to your bed, with your brother's life as the price of disobedience. Do you understand me?"

Borogor's eyes widened at the ghastly prospect, a horrible image of Gúthwyn's face as he drove a knife through Hammel or forced himself on her ravaging his mind. "You—" he managed, then stopped short as he thought of what angering Haldor might do.

The Elf laughed, sending a wave of disgust through him. "Keeping your tongue has its rewards, does it not?"

He arched an eyebrow when Borogor did not answered, and the man ground out, "Yes, my lord."

"I am glad we had this talk," Haldor said, the trace of a grin on his features. "Now go back to your tent and comfort that wretched creature in whatever way you can. It will do no good."

Borogor had no choice but to obey. When he returned to the tent, Gúthwyn's face was clean of the dirt, but not of the shame, and she did not meet his eyes.

* * *

That month, time crawled by as slowly as a weary snail. The chance of a baby in Gúthwyn's womb gnawed at both her and Borogor's minds, until neither of them were getting much sleep at night. He started noticing her putting her hands on her stomach when she thought no one was looking—not in the way that she did when she was nauseous or frightened, but in a gentle, careful way.

Yet as far as he knew, Haldor remained unaware that of the possibility that he was the father of an unborn child. Gúthwyn's sessions at his tent had not been prolonged, nor had she been beaten for what the Elf would deem a disgrace. Borogor lived in a state of constant edginess, even more so as the next month neared. The days came, and went, but Gúthwyn still had not sought him out.

Then one morning, shortly after he had awoken the men, Gúthwyn entered the tent with the children in tow. They had been dressing at the rocks as usual, and as usual he scanned her face carefully for a sign of something different. Her face was impassive; however, as Hammel and Haiweth occupied themselves in their corner, she approached him.

"May I speak with you?" she asked, her voice hardly above a whisper.

Anxiety flooded through Borogor at her words, but he only nodded. They walked out of the tent, him trying to decipher the tensing of her back. _Please, do not let her be pregnant,_ he prayed to the Valar. He could only imagine what having an abortion would do to her mind.

Gúthwyn led him towards the training grounds, though not to the rocks; she chose instead to go out of the hearing range of the tents. When they had gone far enough, she turned to him. "I-I am not with child," she whispered.

Relief—complete, total, utter relief—swept through him. "You… You are sure of this?" he questioned, studying her eyes closely.

She nodded, and he was surprised to see something like sadness coming over her. "I am sure," she replied, swallowing hard.

"Are you alright?" he inquired gently.

"I-I am fine," she replied, drawing in a shuddering breath. "I just…"

Borogor waited patiently, but when she did not finish her sentence he prompted her softly. A cynical smile tugged at her mouth, and she looked at him with glistening eyes. "I know it is stupid," she said bitterly, "but I thought… I just thought that maybe, if I had a child, he might… he might change."

For a time, he looked at her, pitying her naivety. Her lower lip trembled, and she shook her head. "I know," she said. "It is stupid. Forget it. I should not have said…"

"Gúthwyn," he began, but she cringed.

"Let us not speak of this anymore," she responded quietly. It wrenched his heart to see the misery on her face as she continued, "Please, can we just pretend this never happened?"

He would not refuse. "Of course," he answered, inclining his head.

"Th-Thank you," Gúthwyn spoke, and turned away. He watched her silently as she returned to the tent, her arms folded across her stomach and her shoulders hunched over against the cruelty of the world.

Later, Borogor came to think that she truly had put the incident from her mind, banishing it to the point where she ceased to remember it. She never spoke of it to him, nor did her hands stray to her belly in the tender gesture of a soon-to-be mother. He did not broach the subject with her, not wanting to disregard her wishes. And as time went on, and he began to understand more of her mind, he soon sought to remove it from his own. But Haldor's threat lingered over him, and the weight of it began slowly settling on his shoulders.


	38. Beg

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Six:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Thirty-Six**

It was a hot, humid day, making the impending free afternoon even more of a welcome treat. Sweat was pouring down Gúthwyn's body as she and Borogor finished sparring, some of the men who were already done drifting over to watch. So far neither of the friends had the clear advantage, but she was keenly aware that she could not last for much longer. A year had passed since he had begun teaching her, and though her skill had improved tremendously she still had yet to beat him in a match.

This was clearly not the day for changing the status quo, as was evidenced when Borogor sent a strike from her side that she did not see coming until too late. The stick rammed into her head, knocking it to the right, and before she could recover he had placed it at her throat.

"You have done better," he said to her, while the few spectators dispersed.

"Mmph," was her reply as she massaged the side of her head. The day had started with her discovering a red stain on her shift; after scrambling around to find a spare rag, she had had to deal with constant cramps and stomach pains. They had made her movements more sluggish than usual, something that irritated her to no end.

Hammel and Haiweth approached them then, Haiweth discarding her bucket and ladle on the ground in favor of giving Gúthwyn an enormous hug. A faint smile on her face, Gúthwyn patted the girl on the head, asking her how her day had gone.

"Good," Haiweth replied into her leg.

"And you, Hammel?" she inquired of the boy. He shrugged, not in a talkative mood. Then again, he rarely was.

Today, Gúthwyn thought, life was alright. Her physical conditions could have been decidedly better, but she was with the children. They were safe. Better still, she would not have to see Haldor for almost an entire week. Her face clouded slightly as she recalled their last encounter.

_As usual before starting on her, the Elf offered the easy way out. "Beg," he said, licking his lips at the sight of her writhing form beneath him. "Beg, and I will let you go."_

"_No," she refused, pausing in her struggles to glare at him. And then something, whether it was the last remnant of her Rohirric pride or another urge that she could not make sense of, stirred her to speak again. "Do what you wish to me; such as it is, I will never beg for your mercy."_

_He paused, the corners of his lips curving upwards. "Is that a challenge?" he asked, flares of excitement shooting in his eyes. Gúthwyn shivered to see him happy, knowing fully well that she never benefited from it._

"_Yes," the strange, bold side of her replied angrily, confident that, after almost a year and a half of his brutality, she could survive whatever else he threw at her._

"_I think this is one of many contests you will find yourself losing," he said smoothly, giving the smirk that she had come to loathe as time went on._

"Gúthwyn?" She was shaken out of her reverie by Borogor's voice. Apologizing, she looked at Hammel and Haiweth, who were waiting impatiently for her to snap out of her thoughts.

"Are you ready to go back?" she asked, and they nodded their heads in agreement. She glanced up at Borogor and saw him staring over her shoulder, a muscle in his jaw twitching.

She turned around and had to swallow a shriek. Haldor had appeared out of nowhere and was standing just behind her—how long he had been there, she did not know. Nor did she want to.

"Good afternoon," he greeted them. No one replied except for Haiweth, who gave a small wave. Beregil, who had just met up with the group, crossed his arms over his chest and came to stand by Borogor. Dispensing with the pleasantries, Haldor spoke to Gúthwyn in a short tone. "You are coming with me."

Surprise took hold of her, and she stared at him. "Now?" she asked in disbelief, with no small amount of apprehension wondering what he was up to.

"The next time you question me will be your last," he snapped at her. With a start she moved forward, unable to look back and meet Borogor or Beregil's eyes. Her approach was hesitant. Was he going to take her to his bed in the middle of the day? Or would he use the knife on her?

Her mind boiling with the unpleasant possibilities, she almost did not notice when he gripped her forearm. Yet when she did she tried to jerk away from him, her attempt useless as lighting a fire in the rain.

"Start walking," he hissed. She planted her feet firmly on the ground, but he merely shoved her in the small of the back. As she stumbled forward, he used her disadvantage to push her along, forcing her to keep moving.

"What are you doing?" she gasped as his tent drew closer, then winced as he twisted her arm.

"No questions," he replied, a furious undertone in his voice that made her blood run cold.

She was shoved unceremoniously into his tent, just barely managing to keep her footing as he strode in after her. Hastily she backed away from him: He seemed in such a fell mood that she was suddenly afraid for her life.

"Take off your clothes," he ordered, turning his back to her and walking to his bed.

A sudden foreboding feeling entered her, and she hesitated. _What is he going to do to me?_ she wondered. Somehow, she did not think that it involved him violating her. _Please, let it be nothing worse than that,_ she found herself praying, and it was a mark of how serious her situation was.

Then something else occurred to her. "Haldor," she whispered, severe embarrassment coming over her. "Haldor, I… I-I am bleeding."

"That is not my problem," he replied, still not looking at her. She closed her eyes, but when she opened them she was still in his tent. This was not a nightmare.

"I said, take off your clothes!" Haldor unexpectedly roared, whirling around to face her. Horrific, pure rage was upon his face as he withdrew two identical knives from his belt. Gúthwyn whimpered and hastily began undressing, more for fear of his temper than of the weapons in his hands.

When she stood bare in front of him, he picked up something that had been lying on his bed. It was a short coil of rope.

"Come over here," he commanded her, and meekly she obeyed. He grabbed her wrists, and in several deft motions had tied them painfully together. With a hiss of pain, she tried to wiggle them around, but they were bound so tightly that there was no way of doing so. This was something new. Her mind raced over thousands of scenarios, each of them worse than the last.

And then he was pulling on the small length of rope dangling from her wrists, using it to lead her along like a dog. Bright red in embarrassment, she was dragged over to the wall. For a moment she thought that he was going to put her in the chains again; then she realized that he would not have tied her up if that had been his plan.

She did not have to wait long for his intent to be revealed. Haldor grabbed her waist and hefted her up against the wall, oblivious to her moans of panic and discomfort. Using his body to hold her in place, he held her arms over her head and fiddled with the rope—she could feel the cord brushing unpleasantly against her wrists.

"Haldor," she whispered fearfully, "what are you—"

"What part of 'no questions' do you not understand?" Haldor cut her off, and she fell silent, trying to swallow her terror.

At length he stepped away from her, and she gasped in pain. Twisting her head upward, she saw that he had tied the rope around an iron hook protruding from the wall. She had never noticed it before, yet now she was hanging from it by only her wrists. The rope was cutting into her; she strained her feet to touch the ground, but she was merely inches away from it.

Gúthwyn began shaking as she realized what was happening. She was bound to the wall, utterly naked and helpless, in the hands of Haldor. If this was not a nightmare, she did not know what was.

He smirked to see her squirming, then said, "You make a wonderful decoration. Yet I will let you go."

She struggled against her bonds, the panic within her multiplying by the second. "When?" she choked out, dreading the answer.

"When you have begged me to," was his answer. A triumphant light shone in his eyes.

Her face paled. She would never do that. But how long would he keep her there? Would she be fed? It was impossible for a human to survive for more than three days without food or drink.

As she stared at Haldor, it dawned on her just how similar this punishment was to the cage in Isengard. Her heart plummeted as she realized that she had told him all about the ordeal. And now he was using the terrors of her past to torment her in the present.

"You—" she gasped, unable to come up with a word strong enough to describe this monster before her.

"Would you care to finish that sentence?" Haldor asked her lightly, and she glared at him mutely. "No? Good, I have other things to attend to. I will be back—perhaps then you will have reconsidered your predicament."

Before she could work out what his words meant, he turned away from her and went to his armor stand, picking up his bow and quiver. As though she were not even there, he calmly slung the latter onto his back and adjusted it. Then he went over to the lantern. Lifting the lid, he held his lips close to the flame. With one last soft smile, he blew it out.

Suddenly the tent was as dark as a winter evening. Nothing could pierce the blackness; when she looked down, she could not even see herself.

"Haldor…" she whimpered, cringing into the wall, expecting at any moment to feel his hands brushing along her stomach. The responding silence was louder than if he had shouted at her.

There was a brief flare of light to her right; gasping in relief, she turned toward it, hoping to see Borogor's sturdy frame, but instead she saw the Elf ducking under the tent flap. When it closed, she was left alone in the dark.

_This has to be a joke,_ she thought, shivering uncontrollably. _Not even Haldor would do this. No, it is all a joke. He will come back in a moment and laugh at me for believing him._

Yet the seconds lengthened, and still he did not reappear. She was growing nauseous now, her eyes darting wildly around for a comforting source of light. To make matters worse, she felt a slow trickling down her legs. A moan escaped her as she thought of all the Wargs her scent would attract.

_No, not Wargs,_ she reminded herself an instant later. _I am not in Isengard. I am in Haldor's tent._

The correction did little to help; memories of that terrible time, ones that she had tried to repress for months, were now flooding back with hideous clarity. She wrinkled her nose as the smell of decaying bodies wafted into her nostrils, nearly vomiting as the girl's mutilated corpse was eaten by maggots before her eyes.

_No, no, stop!_ Gúthwyn yelled at herself. She had to bury her recollections, or she would be driven insane just as last time. _Is that what he intends to do?_ she wondered. He could not have been serious about making her stay until she begged… It would never happen. She was not going to.

Despite her firm resolve, after five minutes of hanging by herself she was close to screaming. She had forgotten how maddening the silence was, how everything became dangerous and terrifying when it was unseen. Each little noise made her jump, putting even more strain on her wrists. Already they were sore from holding up all of her weight.

Years were passing. She went into fits, kicking out frenetically with her legs, gasping as they slammed back into the rock but too hysterical to stop. Her mouth was clamped shut against the shrieks and screams building up within her. When was this going to end? When was Haldor going to return? She could not believe that she missed his presence, but the loneliness was more than she could bear.

She was panting heavily, recovering from her latest spasm, when the small patch of light showed again. Gúthwyn stiffened, craning her neck to catch a glimpse of Haldor slipping back inside. "Haldor," she called out, her voice wavering and on the verge of panic. "Haldor, this is not funny!"

Only a chilly quiet met her ears, yet it was not an unoccupied quiet. Not even the sound of his breathing could be heard, but she knew he was somewhere in the tent.

"Haldor!" she exclaimed again, clenching her teeth as more blood dripped down her legs. "Let me go!"

He did not answer her. Furiously, she kicked at the wall, hurting her feet in the process. "Haldor!" Her screams echoed throughout the tent. "Stop this! Stop!"

At length she gave up, going limp with temporary defeat, trying to catch her breath. It was then that a hand slid across her stomach.

"No!" Gúthwyn gasped, twisting away from him. But no matter where she went Haldor followed, never saying a word. His second hand joined the first, and together they began roaming over her body. Most men would have taken pleasure in her breasts, yet he was concentrated on what would discomfort her most rather than on his own desires. Time and time again he returned to stroke her belly, growing softer and slower as her cries quickened and became louder.

"Stop, stop!" she was shrieking long before he ceased, every fiber of her being wishing to be somewhere, anywhere else. Even Haldor's bed would have been preferable to this blind helplessness.

When at last he pulled away, leaving her moaning and quivering in horror, she had to stifle sobs that were threatening to escape her. _Please, let this be over. Let someone come and rescue me! I will do anything they ask of me in return, anything at all!_

No one came. Slowly an hour dragged by—at its end, there was no further sign of Haldor, but he had not left the tent. She trembled to think that he could be standing right next to her, and as the minutes passed she became convinced that he was. At all times she was thinking of when he would next touch her, expecting at any second to feel his fingers lightly caressing her skin.

Eventually, as nearly half a day had gone by, the horrible thought that maybe Haldor was serious about leaving her there grew stronger within her. Blood was no longer the only thing on the floor; she had had to relieve herself, the moment mortifying with the Elf still somewhere in the tent. However, she would not beg. She refused to. _Absolutely not,_ Gúthwyn told herself. _You have already dishonored yourself more than most have in their lifetime, and you have not even been in this world for two decades._

Clenching her jaw repeatedly, she soon had to worry about something else: Food. She did not eat much to begin with, but by now her stomach was growling ravenously. Out loud she cursed Haldor, not caring that he could hear her.

Yet she learned to keep her tongue to herself when he returned to her shortly thereafter, handling her so malignantly that she truly thought it worse than anything he did to her in his bed. He did not stop until she was screaming his name and thrusting her legs in his general direction, and it was then that he said his first words since he had left her. They were so low and quiet that she almost did not hear them.

"Beg," he whispered. "Beg, and I will let you go back."

She did not answer, though her stomach rumbled painfully.

The day gradually faded away, and by the end Gúthwyn had vomited three times and was on the verge of a nervous collapse. Haldor had come back to her sweating form once on the hour, keeping her guessing as to where he actually was, groping her from all directions until every second was a miserable struggle against the tears in her eyes. By tilting her head back as he handled her and blinking rapidly, she ensured that not one of them spilled over.

She was becoming dehydrated as well; night lay over Mordor and all she could recall was the sensation of water pouring down her throat. The thoughts tormented her until she could stand it no longer: A fresh burst of energy came into her, and she began yelling and thrashing violently. Garbled screams tumbled out of her mouth, of which none made any sense to her.

The sky was turning pale grey when the voices came.

* * *

"Beg me to release you," Haldor murmured, sliding his hand down her chest and stopping it on her stomach. "Beg me, and I will."

Moaning feverishly she shook her head, knowing that he could not see her but not having the energy to speak. Days—months—years?—had gone by since she had been left here, the Elf and the cruel shapes from her past acting as her only companions. It was hard to say which of them was worse. Between the increasingly alluring option of "beg for your freedom" or the jeering taunts of _You are pathetic… Listen to the Elf, at least he is offering you a way out_, she felt herself slowly being driven mad.

"No?" Haldor asked, interrupting her confused thoughts. "Soon you will. I can smell it."

With that peculiar remark he disappeared into the darkness. Gúthwyn had not seen him once. Groaning, she struggled sluggishly against her bonds. A few droplets of blood trickled down her wrists, and as the rope bit into her tender skin she gasped.

Always in the back of her mind was Borogor. She needed him more than anything right now; she needed him to come and rescue her, to cut her down from the wall and bring her back to Hammel and Haiweth. It seemed like months, but though she did not know it it had been just over two days since she had seen them. Her heart ached as she thought of them sleeping by themselves on the floor, with no one to tuck them in at night.

Sleep. When was the last time she had had any? _Tomorrow,_ she decided. No, not tomorrow—yesterday. The day before? Was that what it was called? What were the days? _Stay rational!_ she tried to scold herself, but logic was fading from her mind. She was half delirious from lack of food and water.

An hour later, Haldor was upon her, such a level of cunning sadism in his touch that she nearly sobbed. When was this nightmare going to be over?

"Beg," he said again, and the voices echoed him. _Beg, beg, beg, beg. You are at his mercy. Beg!_ "Beg me to release you." _Beg… release awaits you if only you will beg._

_No…_ she thought, and whimpered. His hands were everywhere, yet there was nothing left in her to throw up.

"Borogor," she muttered. Haldor stopped.

Suddenly a thousand blows were raining down upon her, coming from all directions and causing new levels of agony. She felt herself being slammed into the wall by pummeling fists, both aimed at her stomach; all the wind was knocked out of her, and she would have gagged if she had the breath to.

"Is that it, then?" he shouted at Gúthwyn as he hit her, and she cowered. "Have you pinned your hopes on him? He has not asked about you once! Only you can get yourself out of this!"

He pulled away, tired of her, and now it was not only her wounds that hurt; nor was it the constant ache in her belly, or the parched feeling of her throat, or her poor abused wrists. She was mulling over his words, picking them apart, wondering if it was true that Borogor was not concerned over her current state. Was Haldor lying? She could never tell, and trying to do so was impossible.

Then a strange sensation gripped her: Her eyes rolled back into her head, and for a brief moment she had left her body, blissfully free of all pain. Gúthwyn saw the children, running toward her with their arms throw open, Borogor standing back and watching them happily. They were in Rohan, Éomer and Éowyn alive and well, and there was nothing to worry about—she was home.

She had become limp in her bonds when a sudden silky touch yanked her back into the real world. A world where Éowyn and Éomer were dead and Rohan was hundreds of leagues away.

"No…" she moaned as Haldor's hands slid lower. They prized her legs apart, stroking them gently, yet when she tried to clamp them together his grip was too strong. Not once did he work between them, but always he moved his fingers a little closer to her.

"Beg," he whispered as he did this, and she thought of the children. She wanted to see them so badly. All she had to do was say please and she could…

_No,_ she told herself.

_But why not?_

She could not remember. She did not even know why she was here, or why she could not just say please. Her mind was swimming.

Haldor seemed to sense her hesitation, and his touch became more gentle and brutal at the same time. "Beg…"

Gúthwyn whimpered. All of her troubles would be over if she just said the word.

"Beg," Haldor repeated softly, and slid his hands up to her stomach. She could sense his face was just inches away from her own. Maybe even less. What she would not give to have this be nothing more than a terrible memory… What she would not say…

She was coming dangerously close to breaking, but she was tired and did not care. All she wanted to do was go home.

"Will you not beg to see the children?" he asked her. She hung her head. Hammel, Haiweth. Her mouth opened, and then closed.

_No,_ the last stubborn part of her said. _Do not give in…_ Yet slowly, surely, it was fading.

"Beg, and you will see them again."

Her head was bowed. A single tear, unnoticed in the dark, rolled down her face. There was nothing else she could do. He had won, as always. "Please," she whispered, and her heart shattered into thousands of tiny pieces. "Please, Haldor…"

Something hard smashed into her head, and she knew no more.


	39. Delicate

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Seven:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-Seven**

Borogor walked down the lines of men, observing their sparring drills with only half of his mind focusing on them. It had now been well over two days since Haldor had taken Gúthwyn into his tent and returned, alone, to inform him that she would not be coming out until she begged for release. Borogor had tried to convince him that this was folly; every technique of diplomacy in his knowledge had been used, but it had all been for naught. The Elf was determined to break his "project," and he would not rest until he had succeeded.

The young ones were ill at ease in her absence, as well. Never before had Borogor appreciated how difficult taking care of children was, but with Gúthwyn gone every simple task became unbelievably hard. They did not want to go to bed, or eat, or work—reasoning, cajoling, and threatening had all failed miserably. In the end, only invoking Gúthwyn's name into a command had worked.

Between making sure the children got by and worrying about Gúthwyn, he was tired such as he had not been for years. As the men's shouts and grunts filtered through his ears, he found himself wondering for the thousandth time that day if his friend was even still alive. There was no telling what Haldor would do, if a foul enough mood struck him. Borogor had been on the receiving end of such brunt fury often, and had no desire to repeat the experience. Yet if it had meant saving Gúthwyn from whatever horrors the Elf had conceived, he would have gladly offered himself up.

He paused in his thoughts to blow the whistle about his neck, signaling to the other men to switch partners. Beregil gave him a sympathetic smile as they passed by each other; he returned the gesture half-heartedly. _What has happened to her?_ he thought as the men began sparring once more. _What has Haldor done?_

The question had barely finished running through his mind before he caught sight of the Elf, striding towards him purposefully from his tent. His heart both leaped and plummeted. Surely Gúthwyn had been released. Yet that would mean that she had been broken, finally, utterly by Haldor: She had begged for her own freedom. To most men, it would not have seemed like such a big deal. If all they had to do to save their skins was plead, they had gotten off easy.

But Borogor knew, as the Elf neared him, that pride was the one quality that Gúthwyn seemed to hold above everything else. He could understand why—she was from Rohan, the realm of the Horse-lords, a proud kingdom with equally proud people. And she could not help the way she was born, though she would have been better off if she had learned that dignity was not a characteristic of a slave.

Haldor was now standing before him, and Borogor snapped himself out of his musings to listen to him.

"You may go and get her now," the Elf told him. "Make sure she is gone before sundown."

Warm relief swept over Borogor, immediately followed by trepidation. "What did you do to her?" he asked, bracing himself for the worst.

A small smile tugged at Haldor's face. "I would advise wearing thick boots," he merely replied.

Borogor barely heard the end of his commander's sentence as he wheeled around, swiftly making his way towards the tent. His entire mind was focused on one thing: Getting Gúthwyn out of whatever hell she had been put through. It seemed to take forever to get to Haldor's tent, though he was nearly running by the time he arrived. Slowing down, he paused only a second before thrusting the flap open and entering.

It was pitch black. For a moment he blinked, wondering if he had gone suddenly blind. After shaking his head several times and hitting it, he ascertained that it was not him. His stomach clenched as he remembered that Gúthwyn was terrified of the dark. Haldor must have known it as well. _That horrible, twisted…_ he thought, clenching his fists. He was actually shaking with anger.

"Gúthwyn?" he called out tentatively. There was no answer.

He took a step towards the rock wall, and was immediately hit by such a wave of stench that he almost choked. It stank of human waste… and blood. Holding his nose tightly, Borogor stuck his arm out in front of him and began feeling his way towards the wall. The reek became more noticeable, until it was absolutely foul. Yet he kept walking, only wincing when his boot stepped into some kind of liquid. _Not blood,_ he hoped. _Please not blood._

He was running his hands up and down the entire surface of the wall, starting at the far left and slowly working his way to the right. Every second he was tense, expecting to feel a corpse beneath his fingertips. If she had not answered him…

"Gúthwyn?" he asked again, just to make sure. It was utterly silent. _She cannot be dead._ It sounded horrible, but he had the feeling that the Elf had just begun tormenting her. He would not kill off his plaything halfway through the game.

At that moment, his fingers brushed up against something. His heart stopped, and then began beating rapidly. With haste marking his movements, Borogor started groping upwards and downwards. He felt more flesh. Was that her stomach? His hands traveled up, and he realized with a start that she was not wearing a shirt. _Does that mean that he used the knife?_ There was blood in the air, but it did not seem to be that much.

His blood boiling, Borogor reached up as far as he could go. He touched her hands; they were bound together by rope. Extending his arms even more, he found another length of the cord that was holding her to the wall.

"Just hold on another moment, Gúthwyn," he said, though she had not heard anything else he had spoken. Withdrawing a short knife from his belt, he held it to the rope with one hand, getting a firm grip on his friend with the other. In one swift motion he had cut her down.

Replacing his knife back in its sheath, he held Gúthwyn to his chest and became aware that it was not just her torso that had been bare—she was not wearing anything. And the odor in the room clearly had its source in her. _By the Valar,_ he thought weakly, _what did Haldor do to you?_

But now was not the time for musings. Shifting her weight, surprisingly little as it was, to his left arm, he used his free hand to remove his cloak and wrap it tightly around her. He held her close to him as he made his way slowly back to where he thought the exit was, praying that he had not been too late. He could still hear her breathing, but something was rattling in her chest.

After what felt like hours he found the flap, pushing through it into what seemed like glorious sunlight. He stood there, blinking rapidly until he had become used to it; then he looked down at Gúthwyn. She was resting peacefully in his arms, yet he saw a dried tear streak on her face and there were huge circles under her eyes. If there was any other physical damage, it was obscured by his cloak.

Hastily Borogor strode back to his tent, taking a route that would not bring them close to the training grounds. He did not want any of the men to see her like this.

"Gúthwyn," he said quietly as he walked, and put his hand to her forehead. It seemed cold. He watched as she whimpered and shrunk away from him, curling up slightly.

With a heavy heart, he carried her the rest of the way back to the tent. She did not stir once, not even when he suddenly had to duck down under the flap. Carefully he laid her upon his own pallet, not wanting to put her where the children would have to sleep next to her still body. One hand pressed firmly over his nose, he pulled back the cloak.

To his surprise, there was almost nothing wrong with her. His eyes fell upon her hands, white as death and still bound together by the rope. Immediately he took his knife out again and cut them free. Gúthwyn moaned and twitched as the circulation within her veins started once more. He would have taken her wrists and rubbed them to ease the pain, but what was not covered in blood was pink and raw. She must have been in bonds for the entire two days.

Fury welled up in him as he looked over the rest of her body, wishing that he did not have to invade her privacy but having no other choice. There was blood, now congealed and blackened, staining the insides of her legs. Borogor winced, knowing fully well that Haldor would have taken pleasure in causing Gúthwyn even more discomfort.

Rising, he retrieved a bucket of water from near Beregil's pallet and brought it back to where Gúthwyn was. Taking a rag from his pack, he dipped it in and wrung out the excess water. He began wiping her entire body, paying extra attention to her legs—despite modesty concerns, they were covered in blood and waste. All the same, he was glad she did not wake up once during the procedure.

One thing that shocked him as he worked was how thin and starved she seemed. He could see every one of her ribs, their outlines sharp against her skin. It looked as though she had not had a decent meal in years. Frowning, he remembered that she had never been able to stomach much of the food in Mordor. It was certainly showing. Somehow, he needed to find a way to fix that.

But he could do nothing until she was awake. In the meantime, he finished washing her and started on her wrists. These were far more complicated: Whenever he touched them, she would pull away from him, gasping softly and wincing. Gently, persistently, he cleaned the tender skin, wrapping them with some of his slowly dwindling supply of bandages. He was careful not to tie them too tight.

His work almost done, he got up and went to Gúthwyn's pallet, returning with her spare change of clothes. With some difficulty he dressed her, slipping a clean rag in her leggings out of sympathy. She did not struggle against him; she lay, limp and pliable, unaware of what was going on around her. He hated seeing her like this. _You should have tried harder,_ Borogor berated himself. _You should have forced Haldor to let her go._

Slowly, tentatively, he reached a hand out and stroked her hair. It was stringy, and he suddenly found himself wishing he had a brush. _No woman should be forced to live like this,_ he thought. _They should be respected and loved, not tortured and violated. Alas for the cruel world we live in!_

Never before had he loathed Haldor as much as he did now. The Elf's treatment of Gúthwyn was absolutely despicable. And as his second-in-command, Borogor was utterly powerless to stop him. Every week he was forced to step aside and let her be raped by a monster, unable to do anything except comfort her afterwards.

He was still at her side when the others returned.

* * *

A shiver rippled through Gúthwyn. Her eyes fluttered. She felt herself slowly returning to consciousness. _No,_ she thought wearily, _let me go back to sleep…_

Darkness was all around her. She trembled once more, violently. _He told me he would let me go…_

"Please," she tried to say, but all that came out was a strangled moan. Her body was wrapped in something. What was Haldor doing to her? "Please…"

Everything seemed unrealistic. She could not get away. "Please!" Her cries gained momentum as she gradually woke up a little more.

Something stirred in the darkness and she whimpered. "Please…"

Then there was a muffled voice. More movement. She wanted to sob. "Please!"

"I was sleeping!" someone groaned back. She froze. That did not sound like Haldor. What was going on? With a shudder she tried to cringe away from everything.

Hands were placed on her shoulders. "Gúthwyn?"

"Please!" she begged, trembling uncontrollably. She was sweating.

"Beregil, get me the lantern."

Gúthwyn barely had time to recognize the man's name before a sudden burst of light exploded in her eyes.

"Thank you—you can go back to sleep now. I am sorry."

"I understand."

"Will the woman shut up, then?" She cowered. "Please…"

"Gúthwyn, it is Borogor. You are back."

She was still, hardly daring to believe it was true. "B-Borogor?" she asked.

"Yes." Her eyes were becoming used to the light; slowly, she made out his knees. Tilting her head up, she saw broad shoulders, dark hair, and a concerned expression on his face. Suddenly she flushed a deep crimson: He had heard all of her pleas. Looking down, she saw that she had been wrapped in a blanket. It was Borogor's, by the looks of it.

A hand gently took her chin and lifted it up. Gúthwyn cringed, trembling as she met Borogor's eyes. "Drink this," he said quietly, offering her a canteen.

She took it with an unsteady hand, struggling to sit up. Once again he helped her, and she found herself wondering at her weakness. Her arm was shaking so violently that, try as she might, she could not get the canteen to her mouth.

"Here," Borogor said kindly, "let me do it." Horrified, Gúthwyn made to protest, but he took the water and held it to her lips. She reluctantly opened her mouth, allowing the cool liquid to flow down her throat. Then she choked; pushing the canteen away, she began coughing furiously.

"No more," she gasped, feeling as though she were going to gag. Sensing this, Borogor reached behind him and brought out the bucket that had been by her pallet. She took it and leaned over it, expecting to vomit at any moment.

At length she began to recover; putting the bucket to her side, she shifted so that she was leaning against the tent wall and facing Borogor.

"Have you had anything to eat?" he asked her concernedly. Gúthwyn quivered, shaking her head. The very thought of food was making her nauseous. After Haldor's hands had roamed over her stomach at will…

She had not realized how pale she was, nor how she had stopped breathing, nor how every inch of her body was vibrating with fear. All she was aware of was Borogor putting his hands on her shoulders. "Gúthwyn!" he exclaimed. "Gúthwyn, look at me!"

Starting, she attempted to pull away from him. Terror was overwhelming her. Everything was swimming before her eyes. The darkness was slowly covering the world…

Suddenly her body was being shaken aggressively. She cowered, shrinking from Borogor, whimpering as he rocked her shoulders back and forth. "You need to stay calm," he told her sternly, leaning in close so that their faces were almost touching. "Take slow breaths. In and out."

Gúthwyn tried to obey him, drawing in her breath and counting to five before releasing it. Slowly she felt herself relaxing, but unable to meet Borogor's eyes. Why was she falling to pieces like this? Why was she so weak?

"I need to look at your wrists," Borogor spoke, his voice low so as not to disturb the men.

"My wrists?" she repeated, and would have withdrawn them from the blanket she clutched around herself but for one concern. "Am I wearing anything?" she asked, reddening and avoiding his gaze.

"Yes," he replied. "I dressed you earlier."

At this she felt even more humiliated. Letting the blanket fall to her waist, she held out her wrists. They were wrapped in bandages. Borogor took them. "Do not be ashamed," he told her softly. "None of the other men were in the room."

She stared intently at her arms. Although she believed his words to be true, her face still flushed to think that he had seen her naked and vulnerable. It was Borogor whom she would trust with her life, but after Haldor the mere thought of being so exposed before someone was repulsive.

"Gúthwyn," Borogor spoke softly, beginning to remove her bandages as he did so. She watched them slowly unraveling, wincing as her wrists stung and burned.

The bandages were still, and Gúthwyn looked up cautiously.

"I have never wanted to cause you harm," Borogor said seriously. "Nor would I seek to take advantage of you for my own gain."

Nodding dully, Gúthwyn stared back down at her hands. After a moment, he resumed unwrapping the cloth. The last strand fell away, and she looked upon wrists that were no longer recognizable. They were raw shades of pink and red, a patchy layer of dried blood covering the whole mess. Borogor turned them over, and she flinched as the Eye of Sauron glared up at her.

Borogor's fingers prodded at the tender skin, delicately massaging the wounds.

_His hand slid to her stomach, stroking slowly so as to give her as much discomfort as possible. "Beg," he whispered seductively, making his touch softer. "Beg…"_

With a strangled cry, Gúthwyn yanked her hands out of Borogor's grasp. Her heart was pounding. "No," she whimpered. "Please…"

He was silent, looking at her sadly. After a moment she relented, shakily letting him take her wrists again; he did not touch them anymore, but put the bandages back on. When he was done, she took the blanket and held it protectively around herself.

"Do you mind if I—?" He motioned to the empty space beside her.

Gúthwyn shook her head, swallowing the lump in her throat. As he sat next to her and stretched out his legs, she stared fixatedly at the flickering light of the lantern, vividly remembering being engulfed in darkness. "How long was I asleep?" she asked as the flames leaped and danced.

"Just over a day," he replied. "Did you faint?"

He was inviting her to tell him the whole story. "He left me tied to the wall," she said before she lost the nerve. "It seemed like years…"

"Nearly three days," Borogor filled in softly.

"Is that it?" Gúthwyn asked, trembling as she glanced at him. He nodded. "I-I thought I was going to die," she continued roughly, stammering slightly. "He told me I had to beg for release. I thought he was joking. It was so dark… And h-he touched me, a-always when I did not expect it…"

She could feel Borogor stiffening beside her. "He told me to beg…" she repeated, looking at him in shame. "And I did… I begged for my own life…" Her eyes dropped to the ground.

"Do not beat yourself up for giving in," Borogor said quietly. "No one lasts long when Haldor decides to break them."

Shivering, Gúthwyn tried to explain, feeling as though she needed to justify why she had pleaded with the Elf. "I hated the dark… He knew it, and he left me in it…" Her voice cracked, and she was dangerously close to tears. She reached out for her friend, touching the side of his face—it was inches apart from hers. Brown eyes stared into blue. "Borogor," she whispered. "_I am scared._"

He did not say a word, but she did not want him to. Shuddering, she leaned against his chest, shutting her eyes and trying to banish the terror. Arms wrapped around her, drawing her closer to him. Borogor held her as she lay still. A semblance of safety began settling over her. For a moment, it seemed as though she were back home. She never wanted the sensation to end.

Gradually ten minutes expanded into almost half an hour. Gúthwyn was still awake, one of her hands intertwined with Borogor's. Up until now he had not stirred, but she felt him moving and tilted her head up to look at him.

"It is time for you to get some sleep," he explained quietly.

She groaned. Sleep would bring nightmares. "No…" she breathed.

"Come on," he encouraged her, helping her sit back up. He then got to his feet.

Gúthwyn tried to follow suit, but she took one look into the darkness that lay beyond Borogor and cowered. Her legs wobbled frantically and would not support her.

Strong hands reached down and lifted her up. "Borogor…" she protested weakly as he did not set her down; instead he began carrying her to her pallet.

"Just relax," he told her.

They were now moving farther from the lantern. Gúthwyn whimpered as the darkness crawled over them. Wrapping her arms around Borogor's neck, she buried her face in his torso, hating herself for being so terrified but utterly incapable of doing anything about it.

"Careful now," she heard him say as he lowered her. The ground rose up to greet her back, and Gúthwyn moaned softly as the two of them met. Gently Borogor disentangled himself from her. "If you need anything," he spoke, crouching down next to her, "do not hesitate to ask."

Already sleep was overcoming her, but as Borogor made to stand she reached out and caught his arm. "Will you leave the lantern on?" she asked, a pleading note in her voice.

"Of course," he replied. "Sleep well, Gúthwyn."

"Thank you," she murmured blearily, and looked over to see Hammel and Haiweth's sleeping forms. Their bodies were rising and falling steadily. What she would not give to see them safe… What she had given. _May you never know,_ she prayed.

Borogor watched Gúthwyn fall asleep, and even when her breathing was steady he did not get up and blow out the light.


	40. The Knife's Gleam

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Eight:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-Eight**

"Everyone, get up!" Borogor shouted early next morning, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes and sitting up. He ducked as a boot went flying past him, narrowly missing his head and hitting the canvas. Swift as lightning, he retrieved it and chucked it back at his brother. Beregil groaned as it landed on his forehead. "That means you, too, Beregil."

The sounds of the men getting ready filled his ears as Borogor got up and made his way to Gúthwyn's pallet. She was such a heavy sleeper that sometimes he did not doubt that she could sleep through an entire battle.

"Gúthwyn," he said, reaching out and shaking her shoulders. Hammel and Haiweth were just getting up; their bleary eyes turned excited when they saw Gúthwyn next to them.

A low groan echoed in the air as Gúthwyn tried to push his hands away, but he persistently shook her until she craned her neck up to look at him. "You need to eat something before we go out," he told her.

"No," she replied shortly, and lowered her head back down on the pallet.

Haiweth giggled and immediately jumped on Gúthwyn's back, eliciting another moan.

"Haiweth…" she said, reaching up and stroking the little girl's hair.

"Gúthwyn, get up and eat something," Borogor ordered her, and lifted Haiweth off so his friend could rise.

"Must I?" Gúthwyn asked as she sat up, and when she glanced at him he was stunned to see how awful she looked. There were huge dark circles under her eyes, her clothes were hanging loosely off of her bony frame, and at the mention of food her face turned a light shade of green.

"On your feet," he said suddenly, wondering if she would even be able to practice today.

She looked at him in surprise, but tried to obey. He watched with a sinking heart as she only managed to rise to her knees before her legs gave out. When she collapsed, pitifully trying once more and falling again, he knew that she was not going to make it onto the training grounds, never mind practice. What could one expect from her, after just being bound in Haldor's tent for nearly three days?

"Forget it," he spoke as she attempted to get up a third time, Hammel and Haiweth staring at her with their mouths slightly open. "You are staying here today. Let me get you some food."

Gúthwyn shook her head frantically, but he ignored her as he went to the tent flap. The other men passed him as he retrieved what was left of the package of meet, delivered twice a day to the tents. Taking out a slice for her, the children, and himself, he grabbed the bucket as an afterthought and returned to them.

"Hammel, Haiweth, take your share and go out to the training grounds. Gúthwyn will not be coming today, but I will be there in a moment." His calm voice alleviated their worries about the young woman, and Hammel stepped forward to take the food.

"Come, Haiweth," he said imperiously to the girl, and the two of them left the tent.

"I want you to eat this," Borogor said to Gúthwyn, handing her a slab of meat. She recoiled.

"No," she answered, pushing it away, turning greener by the second.

He sighed. "Gúthwyn, eat it now." It was not in his nature to be so harsh to women, but he refused to let her starve herself. The last time he had seen her eat something was the morning before Haldor brought her to his tent—even that had not been much.

Gúthwyn stared at him in horror, but when he showed no signs of joking she made a face and took the food. A look of apprehension was upon her as she brought it to her lips, biting off a tiny piece.

Almost immediately she gagged, reeling towards the bucket and clutching it tightly as vomit spewed out. Borogor watched, aghast, as she wiped her mouth weakly on her sleeve and turned to him. "I cannot do this, Borogor," she said shakily. "Not now."

Mechanically he nodded. "You should try to get some rest, then," he replied, standing up. She looked intensely relieved that he was not going to press her on the issue of food.

"Thank you," she whispered, settling back slowly onto her pallet. Borogor nodded, and then blinked. She was already asleep.

Distinctly worried and disturbed, he pushed open the tent and strode out. Why was she not eating? Had Haldor done something to her, something so terrible that she had not mentioned it to him? He decided to speak to the Elf about it, but could not repress the trepidation he felt at approaching his commanding officer. Being Gúthwyn's friend, his position was already precarious.

He arrived at the training grounds and saw that the men had already started, and were much more silent under the cold eye of Haldor. The Elf did not look happy, and Borogor resisted the urge to turn around and head back to the tent. Instead, he strode towards him.

"My lord," he spoke, bowing respectfully. "I—"

Haldor took no notice that he had said anything, but reached out and grabbed his right arm painfully. "You were supposed to be here ten minutes ago," he hissed. "Where is that woman?"

"Sleeping," Borogor muttered. "She could not stand—"

"She will be here tomorrow," Haldor interrupted, tightening his grip, "or I will kill that wretched brother of yours, do you understand?"

Borogor winced. "Yes, my lord," he answered, and could not help but feel relieved when the Elf let go of him.

"Now," Haldor said, "what were you saying?"

"I was wondering…" Borogor paused, now reluctant to press for information. But Haldor raised an eyebrow, telling him that he had better make his words worthwhile, and he continued. "I was wondering what you did to Gúthwyn to make her stop eating."

"Stop eating?" Haldor repeated, narrowing his eyes.

"She can never keep her food down," Borogor explained. "She always throws it back up. I thought you had something to do with it."

"Well," Haldor began slowly, a soft smile coming to his features, "I suppose this problem needs to be fixed, does it not?"

A sudden, icy dread washed over Borogor. "I can do it, my lord," he hastily offered. "You do not need to concern yourself—"

"On the contrary," Haldor interjected quietly, a small smirk tugging at his lips, "if I was the one to cause her troubles, I should be the one to change them."

"For better or for worse?" Borogor could not stop himself from asking.

The Elf glanced at him, and he became aware that his question had crossed the line. "My apologies," he said immediately. "I was not thinking."

"If I were you, I would start thinking," Haldor responded calmly, almost conversationally. "After all, I do believe you prefer Beregil with his head on, am I right?"

Borogor's blood boiled, but he refused to take the bait. Haldor's laugh echoed softly in his head. "I will be seeing Gúthwyn tonight," the Elf said, and Borogor froze. "Not to make love to her, of course," Haldor continued, though both of them knew fully well that it was anything other than love. "I doubt she would be able to move. But you can rest assured that her eating will not be an issue when you see her next."

"What are you—?"

"Get back to work."

* * *

Gúthwyn sighed, her eyelids fluttering as she slowly felt herself waking up. For a moment, she was not sure what had caused the disturbance. She had been sleeping all day, barely able to muster up the energy to open her eyes. There was a constant grumbling in her stomach, and for a moment she thought that might have been it; then she realized that a shadow lay on the ground before her.

Thinking it was Borogor, she glanced up and tried to plaster a smile on her face. Then she nearly fainted.

"Good evening," Haldor said to her, smiling malignantly.

She did not even have time to panic before he reached down and lifted her up by her neck. "Borogor tells me that you have not been eating," he said.

Gúthwyn paled, looking over his shoulder at her friend. He was sitting on his pallet, gazing at her guiltily. The other men were not so abashed: They were staring with open curiosity, even glee, at her and Haldor. Only Hammel, Haiweth, and Beregil were absent.

Her body shook violently, and her wide eyes focused back on the Elf. "Well?" he ground out.

Simultaneously she nodded and shook her head, resulting in a strange wiggling motion. He snorted derisively. "You are coming with me," he said, and switched his grip from her throat to her arm before she even noticed.

Wild fear ensnared her, and she tried to twist her arm away. "No!" she gasped.

His hand hit her square across the face, and her eyes watered. "Learn to respect your superiors," he snarled. "Now move!"

With that he thrust her forward, keeping a tight hold on her arm as she stumbled ahead of him. Like a prized horse she was paraded in front of the other men, her face burning with embarrassment. And then she was flung outside, landing painfully on the ground. She moaned, curling slowly in on herself, only to be picked up almost immediately by Haldor.

Unlike when Borogor carried her, she did not feel safe at all. Haldor slung her over his shoulders, forcing all the air out of her chest. His hands were clamped around her limbs too tightly, and he moved so swiftly that she could feel a wind biting at her cheeks. Some of the men still returning to their tents stopped and gawked at her. Realizing how ridiculous she must have looked, she had to restrain herself from kicking at Haldor and screaming for him to release her.

They were at his tent in no time. He lifted her off his shoulders and all but threw her to the ground, where she landed with a loud _thump_. Before she could recover, he grabbed a fistful of her shirt and used it to drag her along the floor to his bed. She whimpered, clutching uselessly at the ground in an effort to stop him.

"Do not be foolish," he snapped at her, and grabbing her wrists yanked them behind her back. She gasped as he held them tightly together, and then shuddered hideously as the familiar touch of coarse rope wound around them.

"No…" she moaned, trying to draw her bound hands away from Haldor, but they would not move. Twisting around, she saw that she had been tied to the bedpost. She turned again to look up at him, her knees pressing uncomfortably into the floor. "Let me go!" she cried, her breathing shallow and rapid.

"Not even begging will get you out of this one," he said, and walked around her to his bed. "Though you were very good at it…"

Her face flushed angrily as she watched him pick up a small package, but she trembled as she wondered what was inside it. He saw her gazing nervously at it and smiled. "In due time," he told her softly. "In due time."

Before long, her question was answered. He strode over to her and dumped its contents on the floor before her. It was a piece of meat, the edges blackened and its origin unidentifiable. A sickening feeling entered Gúthwyn, growing deeper as she thought she knew where he was going with this.

"Eat it," Haldor ordered her.

For a long time, she stared at him. "My hands are tied," she said at last, looking back down at the meat and trying not to vomit.

"That is not my concern," Haldor replied.

"Then how do you expect me to—"

"Like a horse."

Horrified, she lifted her head up and gaped at him. "You cannot be serious," she gasped.

"Do not question me," Haldor said angrily, and sent a kick at her head that knocked it powerfully to the side. Dizzy and seeing stars, Gúthwyn spat on the ground. The stars turned red. "Now eat it," he continued when she recovered, "or make yourself comfortable, as you will stay here until you do."

She whimpered. "Not again…"

"Eat it," Haldor repeated, a deadly edge to her voice.

Gúthwyn had no choice. It was becoming harder and harder to refuse the Elf, who controlled nearly every aspect of her life. Sometimes she wondered why she even bothered. So broken, like a dutiful slave serving the master it has known all its life, she bent down, straining at her bonds and spreading apart her knees to reach the floor. All of her muscles were quivering as she neared the meat.

Under Haldor's triumphant gaze, she sunk her teeth into the foul carcass and tried to tear off a piece. It refused to part from the whole, however, and she finally looked up at Haldor. The meat was still clenched in her mouth.

He laughed cruelly. "Figure it out yourself," he told her. She spat out the meat.

"I will not do this," she said, her entire body shaking in fury and humiliation. "I refuse."

Haldor's smirk was replaced by a cold, calm look. "Then I shall go and get a child. Which one? Which one do you want to watch die? Should I bring both?" He stood up, and began moving towards the exit.

A wild panic came over her, and the children's smiling faces flashed before her eyes. "No—Haldor!" she called after him. The Elf did not stop. "Haldor!"

He was pushing the tent flap open. "Haldor, please!" she screamed at the top of her lungs.

Haldor halted, and turned to see her breathing heavily against the bedpost, on the verge of hysteria. "Very good," he murmured, and Gúthwyn felt nauseous. She had not even lasted for five minutes.

More to keep him from seeing the tears threatening to spill over than anything, she lowered her head back down to the meat. This time, she succeeded in removing a small piece. Before she could spit it out, she hastily swallowed the entire thing, feeling its rubbery texture sliding down her throat.

The next second she was retching, leaning forward and watching as her vomit spilled out all over the floor, feeling absolutely disgusting. To her disappointment, none of it landed on the meat. She supposed it did not matter. Now Haldor would see that it was useless to get her to eat this food, as she was just going to regurgitate it anyway. She felt a small glow of success forming inside of her.

Gúthwyn could not have been more wrong. Haldor merely looked at her. "Eat it," he said, pointing at her own fluids. "Then finish this." He kicked his toe at the meat.

She almost began to gag again, but he stopped her. "I would try to refrain from throwing up," he said, "as you will have to eat that in addition to what is already on the floor."

Never before had Gúthwyn both hated and feared someone as much as she did Haldor. Yet she looked into his eyes, and the cold intensity radiating from them told her that if she did not obey his command, the children would die.

And nothing but absolute love, greater than the earth itself, would have made her bring her lips to her own vomit and begin slurping it up. As she did so, shuddering uncontrollably from repulsion and horror, she concentrated on their faces. _You are doing this for them,_ she told herself as she swallowed a mouthful. There was still so much left. She wanted to cry.

_For Hammel,_ she thought as another clump made its way into her system. The next one was for Haiweth. Bite by bite she forced the vomit down. When she got back to her tent, she would throw it all up again, until there was nothing left in her stomach.

Hours later, Gúthwyn finished the pile, only to look over and see the almost whole piece of meat waiting for her. Suddenly, the weight of the world fell upon her. Shoulders slumped in defeat, she stared up at Haldor. The Elf was watching her fixatedly, his eyes lit with amusement. "Haldor," she whispered tiredly, "I cannot do this anymore."

She received no quarter from him. "Do it," he answered shortly.

"Haldor, _please…_" Any second, she thought the tears would come. How could anyone do this to another being and still live? How was he able to go to sleep at night?

"I will not repeat myself again."

Mechanically, she bent down and sunk her teeth into the meat. The carcass made a squelching noise in her mouth. For a moment, she almost lost control and threw up. _No!_ She steeled herself against the queasiness and swallowed hard.

"Very good," he praised her like an obedient dog, and that more than anything tested her self-restraint. Forget vomiting; when she got back to the tent, she wanted to kill herself. Anything to get away from this place.

It seemed to take hours, but finally Gúthwyn finished. She collapsed against the bedpost.

"Well, I thought we would be here much longer," Haldor mused, as though the whole event had been a tea party. "You are learning swiftly."

She could not even respond to such a costly compliment. He moved behind her, and she cringed as he began untying her. "On the other hand," he said as he worked, and she winced as his breath fell upon her neck, "I will be checking with Borogor every day to see what you have consumed. He cannot lie to me. If I catch wind of you not eating what you are supposed to, we will have another lesson. Do you understand me?" His hands paused on the ropes.

"Yes," she hastily said, and her bonds fell away.

"Excellent," Haldor replied. "Now get out."

* * *

Borogor had been lying down on his pallet for the past ten minutes, but when the tent flap lifted he was in a sitting position before Gúthwyn walked in. Her face was contorted, as though she were about to throw up any second—knowing her, that could very well have been the case.

He opened his mouth to say something, but abruptly she halted. Stooping down, she picked an object off of the ground. It caught the minimal light of the lantern and sparkled; he realized it was his hunting knife. The weapon must have fallen out of his belt when he had gone over to speak to Beregil.

Expecting her to return it, he was surprised when she glanced around apprehensively and shifted it to her right hand. Shadows must have been obscuring his corner; otherwise she certainly would have seen him.

Leaning forward, he watched curiously as Gúthwyn took a few steps forward, until she had neared her own pallet. She bent down, stroking the children's hair, her touch more gentle than it usually was. He thought she whispered something, but he could not make out the words.

She turned around and wiped her eyes, and then did something peculiar with the knife. Slowly and methodically she held it at various points of her body, places which were fatal to a human—places where the blood loss would be greatest. Borogor stared in bafflement at her as she did this, wondering what on earth had gotten into her.

Gúthwyn now had the knife before her throat, and a foreboding sensation spread through him as he saw the gleam of the blade in her eyes. Yet as one hypnotized, he gazed at her without speaking as she lowered the weapon, then rocked back and forth on her heels as though steeling herself to do something. The knife rose, wavered, and fell back down.

Then a change came over his friend. She seemed more calm, more sure of herself as she lifted the knife. Borogor realized that she intended it to be the last time.

"Gúthwyn," he said suddenly and sharply.

She jumped, and the knife clattered to the floor. "What are you doing?" he asked, standing up and crossing over to her. The blade was exactly between the two of them. Before she could bend down for it, Borogor had picked it up and put it back in his belt.

"Is that yours?" she replied, expertly deflecting the question.

"Yes," he answered. She trembled, looking away, and he made a quick decision that as long as everything was alright now, there was no need to make things worse by interrogating her. He also had to apologize. "Gúthwyn, I am sorry for telling Haldor," he said quietly. "I thought he might have done something to make you stop eating, and—"

"Forget it, Borogor," she cut him off in that tired voice she used so often. "It matters naught anymore."

Pure wretchedness was on her face. "What did he do?" Borogor whispered, and she cringed.

"He made me eat," was her answer, "and he wants you to tell him what goes in my mouth each day."

Borogor sighed, knowing fully well that he would not be able to lie to the Elf. "Gúthwyn, I am sorry," he said again, but no matter how many times he apologized he was painfully aware that they could not possibly make up for what she had been through.

She nodded, and for a split second seemed as if she were about to cry. "You are blameless," she replied softly. "I am going to go to bed now."

"Haldor wants you on the training grounds tomorrow," Borogor said, wishing that he could be someone other than the bearer of bad tidings.

He could almost see the weight being put on her shoulders. "Good night," she spoke miserably, and lowered herself onto her pallet.

"Good night," Borogor replied, and his heart twisted as she reached out to put an arm around the children. It became apparent to him that she needed them as much as they needed her.

The sound of breathing soon filled the tent, and all but the second-in-command slept for the remainder of the night.


	41. The First Ripples

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Thirty-Nine:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Thirty-Nine**

With a sigh, Gúthwyn sank to the ground and leaned against a small boulder. The troops had just been dismissed for the night, but for the moment she was too tired to move. _Just five more minutes,_ she found herself reasoning, as though Théoden was trying to wake her up back in Rohan.

At the thought of Théoden, her eyes narrowed and her fists clenched. Just a few months ago, she had realized that Haldor was actually right about something: Her uncle did not care for her at all. Why else, then, would he have abandoned her so callously? Why else would no one have come looking for? She could picture him sitting at ease upon his throne, having everything handed to him when he desired, while she was forced to subdue to Haldor's will and become all but his personal slave.

Gúthwyn spat on the ground just as a pair of boots entered her field of vision—which, the sky being so dark, meant that they were right in front of her. "Watch it!" Lumren's voice growled at her.

She sighed again, counting briefly to ten before looking up at him. "What do you want?"

Lumren glared at her, and she stood up: After that incident over a year ago, when he had her cornered in the tent until Borogor walked in, she had never deemed it safe to be sitting with only him in the vicinity.

"What do you want?" she repeated, folding her arms across her stomach.

"Borogor told me to get you. Everyone has already left." Lumren scowled, clearly displeasured at having to do this task. There were shadows in his eyes.

Gúthwyn glanced around. He was right. The last few stragglers were disappearing in the darkness. Frowning, she turned back to him. "Why would Borogor send _you_?" she asked rudely.

For a moment, Lumren looked as though he wished to strike her. "Because I was the first unlucky one he saw."

"I am perfectly capable of walking back to the tent myself," she replied, unwilling to have to spend even a minute alone with him.

"Forget it," he said. "I am not going to get on his bad side because the high and mighty whore does not want my company."

With a snarl, Gúthwyn raised her hand and would have punched him if he had not grabbed her wrist, anticipating the move. He twisted her arm, and she felt her knees bending as he applied more pressure. "Start walking," he ordered.

Absolutely furious, she yanked her hand out of his grasp. "Do not touch me again!" she exclaimed, and whirled around to storm back to the tent.

Almost instantly, his hands closed around her shoulders and whipped her back to face him. "Wrong way," he said, sneering at her. "You have been here for how many years? Almost two? And yet you still cannot find your way around in the dark. How pathetic."

Gúthwyn looked back at where she had been going. She could have sworn that she was headed the right way… But then again, as much as she hated to admit it, he was right. Directions were never her strong suit. "Fine," she retorted. "If you are so smart, then you lead the way."

Smirking, he released her and gave a mock bow. "As you wish," he said as he stood back up. She glared at him. "Touchy, touchy."

He started walking, keeping up a constant stream of irksome comments as she followed him. His steps were strangely light, and she thought he seemed happy about something. A chill ran through her.

"So, how is Haldor these days?"

Her lips pressed together. "I do not know," she said shortly. "You should ask him yourself."

"Oh, really?" Even in the pitch black, she could almost see Lumren's smirk. "I would say you know him better than just about anyone here, what do you think?"

Gúthwyn refused to take the bait. She stared at alternating points over his shoulder, searching eagerly for the tents. But everything was dark; puzzled, she wondered why no one had the lanterns on. Surely Borogor would have left theirs burning for her?

"Too good to answer me?" Lumren needled her, slowing down so that his pace matched hers. "Afraid to do anything without Borogor protecting you?"

"I am not afraid," she snapped, forgetting that she was ignoring him. His eyes gleamed in triumph.

"You are of Haldor," he replied, pressing his advantage. "It is strange—you would think that after sleeping with him every week for over a year, you would be very _comfortable_ with him, no?"

Gúthwyn's nails dug into her palms so ferociously that they started bleeding. When were they going to be back at the tents? They should have been there by now.

"Lumren," she ground out, "you managed to get us lost." She was gesturing with her hands as she spoke, and suddenly they hit something hard.

Confused, she felt out what she had bumped into. It was rough and uneven. Gradually moving up and down, she repressed a groan. Lumren had navigated them right to the rocks that she and the children used each morning. This one happened to be one of the taller ones; it reached nearly three feet above her head.

Turning around, she opened her mouth to yell at him, frustrated that this would delay her from getting some sleep. But there was a sly, menacing grin on his face that stopped her in her tracks. "I beg to differ," he said maliciously, "but we are right where I wanted to be."

She did not even have time to think before he lunged forward, shoving her against the rock and pressing his body over hers. His hands slipped under her shirt, sliding up to grope her breasts.

"Small," he grunted, massaging them, "but they will do."

His words snapped her out of the paralysis that had taken over her, and with a start she grabbed at his shoulders. "Lumren!" she screamed, trying to push him away. "Get off of me!"

He ignored her, lifting up her shirt so that he could see her exposed before him. It was then that she began shrieking at the top of her lungs. Her legs kicked out frantically, and she slapped at every inch of him that she could lay her hands on. "STOP!"

Lumren roared angrily, removing one hand from her chest and using it to strike her across the face. "Shut up, you little bitch!" he yelled.

"NO!" With that, Gúthwyn kicked him in the groin. He howled, doubling over in pain, and she used his distraction to yank herself away. Adrenaline filled her veins as she began scrambling from his hunched form, making as much racket as she possibly could. She would take this abuse from Haldor—she had to—but she would die before allowing herself to be shamed by this lowly being.

Something grabbed her wrist, and she was pulled back into Lumren's arms. With a growl he slammed her back into the rock. Her head connected, and there was a small explosion of agony. Gúthwyn shrieked even louder as she fell to the ground, covering her head with her hands and curling up tightly.

Lumren settled on top of her, and the force of his weight nearly crushed the breath out of her. His hands now fell upon her pants.

"Lumren!" she gasped, struggling feebly under his body. "You animal!" She prayed her screams had attracted someone, anyone.

He merely grinned, and leaned forward to kiss her harshly on the lips. His tongue jammed into her mouth, exploring every inch of it ravenously. Panicking, Gúthwyn realized that it had been years since he had been this intimate with a woman.

Stopping abruptly, he sat back on top of her. "How was that, whore?" he sneered, and his eyes moved over her entire body as she thrashed beneath him.

She was nearly out of breath from screaming and Lumren's weight. None of her cries had worked. He was laughing as he slid his hands down her torso, pausing at the top of her leggings. Gúthwyn felt faint as he made to pull them down.

Suddenly, there was an odd whistling sound, and something thumped into Lumren from behind. He froze, and without warning keeled over on top of her. An arrow protruded from his back. Gúthwyn screamed as his dead corpse smothered her, kicking and pushing at it until it fell off. She sat up immediately, wincing from the pain in her head and trying not to panic from what Lumren had almost done to her. Then she glanced up. Haldor was standing over her. Borogor was just behind him.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, she shrieked and tried to scramble backwards. The Elf reached down and picked her up, bringing her face to his. "I have just saved your sorry life," he hissed, and she squirmed under his grip. Her head was pounding. She wanted to go home. "Do you know what that means?"

Gúthwyn frantically shook her head.

"It means that you are in my debt," he snarled, and with that dropped her back onto the ground.

She moaned, curling up into a ball and wrapping her arms around herself. Debt to Haldor… her stomach turned at the thought, and she almost wish that Lumren had had his way with her. What would the Elf extort?

"Gúthwyn." Borogor's voice sounded from above her, and she nearly wanted to cry. How was it that he always saw her weakest moments?

His hands gently pulled her arms away, and she looked up at him warily. Haldor had vanished into the night. "Are you hurt?"

She nodded. Her head was stinging fiercely. "Why did you send him to get me?" she mumbled, propping herself up and seeing Lumren's body. The whole thing was a mess… Why could she not just walk away from it all?

Borogor frowned. "What do you mean, send him to get you?" he asked. "I barely even saw him today…" Then realization swept over his features. Gúthwyn buried her face in her hands and groaned.

"I should have known," she said miserably. "I should have known you would never do something like that."

"Gúthwyn, you are not to blame for this," he told her, and she glanced at him. "Lumren has had his eyes on you ever since you first came here."

Self-consciously, Gúthwyn wrapped her arms around herself, shivering in the unexpectedly cold air.

"Are you alright?" Borogor asked her, removing his cloak. She tried to protest, but he stood up and moved behind her. The heavy fabric settled on her shoulders and she breathed its scent, relaxing slightly for the first time in what felt like months.

"I am fine," she said, which was true. Lumren was dead; he would not bother her anymore. And he had not been able to do anything.

"Your head is bleeding," Borogor noticed suddenly, and his fingers were in her hair, pulling the strands away to examine it better. Gúthwyn tensed but allowed him to continue, hissing when he reached the wound.

"Lumren shoved me into the rock," she ground out, resisting the urge to jerk away from him.

Borogor let her hair fall back in place, and when he spoke his tone had an underlying rage to it. "He is lucky Haldor killed him," he spat, "otherwise he would still be choking out his life right now."

Gúthwyn got to her feet, her legs wobbling slightly. She turned and stared at Lumren's corpse, sprawled out upon the ground. Though she clutched Borogor's cloak tightly around her, a chill spread over her. Something was going to come out of this; she knew it. The body lying facedown was not going to be forgotten, the memories scattered like dust is in the wind. There would be consequences.

* * *

An hour later, Gúthwyn was sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying not to cry out as Borogor cleaned the cuts on her head. He had been working in silence for five minutes, but suddenly a warning echoed throughout the tent.

"After tonight, I would avoid the Easterlings to the best of your capabilities."

Gúthwyn twisted her neck to look at him, and then apologized as he moved it back. "What do you mean?" she asked, drawing in her breath as he dabbed at the wound with a soaked rag.

"He had many friends in their troops," Borogor replied grimly. "Highly ranked ones. Do you remember Burzum?"

She clenched her fists. To this day, her ribs still pained her on occasion. "Yes."

"He will certainly seek revenge. Also, I doubt he has forgotten that I broke his fingers on your behalf."

Nodding, Gúthwyn closed her eyes. That was not a quarter of what was troubling her.

"And you just saw the men's reactions."

Gúthwyn frowned. When they had returned, nearly the entire tent was up, waiting to hear what had happened. Borogor had broken the news of Lumren's death, leaving out the majority of the other details. Some, like Beregil and Dîrbenn, had merely looked worried; others were downright furious.

"Do you know what you have done?" Sîdhadan had roared from his pallet at her. "The Easterlings are going to be just waiting for the chance to have our heads for dinner!"

But even Sîdhadan's hateful words did not haunt her as much as Haldor's. "You are in my debt" had been running through her mind like wildfire, never ceasing no matter how much she tried to douse it. She trembled as she imagined what he might make her do, each possibility a thousand times worse than the one before it. There would be little sleep tonight, she knew.

"There, done." Borogor's voice broke into her thoughts. She turned around to face him. "Gúthwyn," he said seriously, "I am worried for your safety."

She could not help but snort.

"I mean it," he persisted sharply. "Stay out of trouble—keep to yourself."

A sinking feeling in Gúthwyn's gut said that if she did not do as he bade her, her troubles would only be starting.

* * *

It was that brief period of time during the day when they were switching over from bows to swords. Several men were pulling carts around, collecting the discarded weapons, while others were supplying the blades and their wooden mockeries. Everything was in confusion as men scrambled to receive their swords, occasionally shoving each other as tempers rose.

Gúthwyn weaved amongst them, dodging glances as well as limbs. The moment she had set foot on the training grounds, she became painfully aware that just about the entire camp had heard of Lumren's death. None of the men seemed to care that he had deserved it; she was the one they jeered at underneath their breath, the one they stared at angrily as she passed.

The first hours had been nearly unbearable, as she could feel accusing eyes burning into her wherever she turned. There seemed to be no end to them. She had noticed, too, that a group of Easterlings always managed to place themselves within her range of sight. They were too far away for her to identify precisely, but she had an unsettling idea of whom one of them might be.

Her suspicions were confirmed as she emerged from the crowd of soldiers jostling for weapons and came face to face with Burzum. The pack of Easterlings was behind him.

"So," he breathed, his voice full of rage. "The little whore thought she could seduce our friend and have him murdered."

Gúthwyn rolled her eyes and tried to move past the group, but Burzum grabbed her shoulders and yanked her back in front of him. "Listen to me when I am speaking to you," he snarled, his breath hot upon her face.

She felt a twinge of fear enter her. "Let go of me!" she hissed, trying to pull herself away from him. He shoved her so forcefully that she almost fell over.

"I am not done with you," he vowed, and drew closer to her. She began backing up, clutching her sword tightly. If worse came to worse, she would have to defend herself.

Burzum's eyes became wild as he came near her. His arm reached out.

"Burzum!" The roar stopped them all in their tracks, and they turned to see Borogor standing not five yards from the group. He looked absolutely furious.

The other Easterlings scattered, leaving only Burzum with his hand stretching towards Gúthwyn. He lowered it slowly, glaring at the second-in-command.

Borogor strode forward, clapping his hand down on Burzum's shoulder and drawing the Easterling captain towards him forcefully. "How long did that hand take to heal?" he snarled, gesturing. Gúthwyn glanced down and saw that its fingers were slightly bent.

Burzum was silent, and if looks could have killed Borogor would have been lying flat out on the ground.

"Well?" Borogor pressed, and his grip tightened.

"Three months," Burzum spat. A muscle in his mouth was twitching.

"Next time, it will be six." Borogor released the Easterling, pushing the man away from him. "Now get back to work."

Having no choice but to obey, Burzum sent one last death glare to Gúthwyn and left the two of them alone.

"Borogor, I am sorry," she said. "I tried to avoid them, I did—"

He held up a hand, and she was quelled. "He needs to be put in his place. I saw them cornering you."

Words could not describe her gratitude. "Thank you," she whispered.

"You never need to thank me," was his response.


	42. Merciless Humiliation

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty**

Borogor paused outside the entrance to his tent and sighed, not wanting to go inside and bring the news to Gúthwyn. Usually it was Beregil whom Haldor cornered and employed as a messenger—today, he had been the unlucky one. Now he knew how uncomfortable and reluctant his brother felt.

Yet he knew that the longer he delayed, the angrier Haldor would be, and Gúthwyn would certainly not benefit from that. Steeling himself to do an unpleasant task, he pushed open the flap and stepped into the light. He glanced over into her corner and stopped, suddenly loathing his job all the more.

Gúthwyn, Hammel, and Haiweth were playing some sort of hand game, softly chanting out the words as their hands clapped and their fingers snapped in a pattern. Hammel looked as though he were merely tolerating this, but Haiweth's face was alight with joy, and Gúthwyn… His heart clenched.

She was smiling, such as he had not seen her do for months. A quiet and subdued laugh escaped her as Haiweth spontaneously gave a bear hug to Hammel, freezing the boy's body in surprise. The lantern was nearby, adding a glow to her face and giving it a beauty that he had never seen before. It was not necessarily physical; something deeper, he thought, but he was clueless to determine what it was.

For a moment he watched them, becoming less and less willing to pass on Haldor's message. But then she looked up and saw him. Her smile broadened. Borogor sighed, and came over to crouch next to her. "Gúthwyn," he said as she and the children resumed their hand game. "Haldor wants you in his tent."

"What?" she asked, not really paying attention to him. Hammel snapped his fingers and she followed suit, passing the move over to Haiweth.

He steeled himself to say it. "Haldor wants you in his tent."

Gúthwyn froze, turning around to stare at him as the children continued playing in the background. Her face crumbled, wiping away all traces of the happiness that been there just a moment ago. Borogor's stomach twisted. "N-now?" she whispered.

Her shoulders slumped even more when he nodded. She stood, causing the children to look up at her in confusion. "I will be back tomorrow," she told them.

"No!" Haiweth pouted. "Come back!"

Gúthwyn paused, and then knelt down and hugged the girl fiercely. She did the same with Hammel. "I will be back tomorrow," she repeated. "Do what Borogor tells you." Her voice wavered. "Good night."

Borogor got to his feet as well, gently catching her by the arm as she made to leave. "Good luck," he murmured. How he hated the sight of her looking so miserable and downtrodden. "I shall be waiting up for you."

Her hollow eyes looked at him. "If it is your will," she replied, and pulled away from his grasp. Borogor watched as she left the tent, passing as a timid shadow upon the wall.

* * *

Gúthwyn stood outside of Haldor's tent, her shoulders bowed and defeated, anxiety and nervousness racking her body. Less than a month had passed since Lumren's death; she wondered now if the Elf planned on claiming whatever she owed him. A tremor ran through her at the thought, her face pale as she mulled upon what horrors he could have possibly planned for her.

The tent flap was thrown open, and Gúthwyn jumped as Haldor's face appeared in the gloom. "Are you waiting for an invitation?" he asked, gesturing for her to come inside. She ducked in, swallowing the nausea building within her.

"I-I did not k-know if… if you k-knew I was h-here," she stammered, and faltered as his cold gaze fell on her.

"I always know," he hissed. "Next time you stand out there idly, I will make you stay the night. Now undress."

She shivered as she obeyed, turning away from him as a habit rather than concern for her modesty. The sight of her clothes falling to the ground caused a lump to well up in her throat; panicked, she forced it back down, praying that Haldor had not noticed. She would have given anything to be anywhere else, even if it meant in the cage at Isengard. Her eyes widened at the memory.

"Get on the bed." Haldor's harsh voice tore holes in her, each syllable like a poisoned arrow. She was hunched over and quivering as she moved to the bed, trying not to think of what he would do to her.

When she at last lay on it, shaking violently from a combination of both cold and sheer terror, Haldor joined her. "Now," he said softly, taking his hand and running it over her bare stomach. For a moment, Gúthwyn felt herself turning green. Haldor stared at her, and with difficulty she repressed the urge to vomit.

The Elf looked triumphant as he continued. "I understand that you are in debt to me for saving your life."

Gúthwyn cowered. "He was not going to kill me…" she whispered faintly.

"Is that what you think?" Haldor asked, reaching out and pulling her in so that their bodies were pressed together.

"Y-yes… n-no… I mean…" Gúthwyn felt as though walls were closing in on her. Haldor's touch was burning, and she tried to squirm away from it, but his grip was like iron.

Laughing softly, Haldor pushed her over so that she was lying on her stomach. Gúthwyn looked at him, puzzled. "What are you—"

He put a hand over her mouth, and she was silenced. As her breathing became faster, he withdrew from her field of vision. She twitched nervously, then gasped quietly as he settled down on top of her. _What on Arda is he doing?_ she thought, frightened and confused.

Suddenly there was a searing pain from behind, shooting into her body with such force that she nearly screamed from it. Haldor's hands gripped her arms tightly, but that was nothing compared to what else she was experiencing. Each second was unbearable as the Elf drove into her; merciless and unrelenting, oblivious to her muffled shrieks and struggles. Never in her most terrifying dreams would she have imagined this.

She tried to stuff her face into his pillow, but she could not ignore the agony roaring through her, nor stop the cries from escaping her. By the time a minute of this passed, the pain had escalated so much that she was fighting tooth and nail not to sob. Her muscles tensed and seized up from shame and horror; Haldor still did not cease.

"Haldor!" she gasped, then arched upward in agony as he pushed into her fiercely. The Elf pressed her down to the bed once more. "Haldor, please!" Her voice was hysterical.

"Do you like it?" Haldor whispered in her ear, not even out of breath.

"No!" she choked out. He drove even harder into her.

"Do you like it?" he repeated, his hair falling over her face. She felt suffocated.

"No, please!" she moaned, absolutely writhing in agony.

"Tell me you like it," Haldor hissed. "Tell me that you like it and you want more."

"Haldor, please!" Gúthwyn's voice cracked. The Elf's response was to merely make his thrusts more powerful. She was running out of breath, each scream taking a little less of it.

Her entire body was shaking uncontrollably. Haldor was not stopping, not even when she begged. She was going to die, she knew it…

"Tell me you like it," Haldor said quietly, managing to make himself heard over her shrieks.

Gúthwyn collapsed. "I like it," she whimpered into the pillow. Hot tears formed in her eyes.

"What was that?" Haldor asked her. The pain increased.

"I like it!" she panted, raising her head up slightly so he could hear.

"I cannot hear you," he replied, and his tone held a mocking delight.

"I like it and I want more!" she screamed, and with a horrible wrench of agony he pulled out of her.

In utter shock, Gúthwyn lay still, swallowing hard and squeezing her eyes shut. A dull ache pulsated through her, originating below her spine and rising up to engulf her. She had never wanted to die so much as she did now. Humiliation and pain washed over her until she thought she could bear it no more.

With a low moan of revulsion, she began moving to the edge of the bed, not looking up once. She needed to get out of this place.

A hand closed on her wrist. "Just where do you think you are going?" Haldor inquired silkily.

Gúthwyn froze, certain that she had not just heard him correctly. She turned to stare at him, unconsciously wrapping her arms around her chest. Apart from smirking at her action, he seemed deadly serious.

"Haldor," she whispered, and for a terrifying instant she thought she was going to burst into tears. "Haldor, what more do you want from me? Please… please let me go." A little piece of her was dying with each word she spoke.

He did not release her. "You think we are done? Oh, no. It is time for you to repay me for all that I have done for you."

"For all that—" Gúthwyn could not believe her ears. This was not happening. She would wake up soon in a cold sweat, with Borogor just twenty feet away from her and the children safely by her side.

His blue eyes locked onto hers, and she found herself nodding meekly.

"Good," he murmured, running his fingers down her stomach once more. "Who would have thought that a proud Rohirric woman would be so submissive?"

Gúthwyn had to blink rapidly to prevent the tears from escaping. She was trembling with horror, self-loathing, and fury.

"Now… be a good slave and serve your master," he said, pressing his advantage as far as it could possibly go. The grip on her wrist tightened.

"Yes, my lord," Gúthwyn replied, and all that was left of her innocence disappeared.

* * *

Borogor rubbed the sleep out of his eyes, worriedly looking over at the tent flap for the fifth time that minute. His solid, terse frame was the only one still awake at this hour. The children had gone to bed shortly after Gúthwyn left, the other soldiers following suit not long after. It had been a long day, and the second-in-command was tired, but he could not stand the idea of his friend returning to a silent, dark tent.

The lantern was burning merrily in the corner, doing its best to portray the opposite of his mood. Gúthwyn had been gone for nearly three hours; apart from the first few times when she had stayed the night at Haldor's tent, the Elf had never kept her for so long. He did not understand why Haldor would decide to change things, but then again, he could never interpret his commander's thought process.

_I will wait for half an hour more,_ Borogor decided, stretching his arms. He was just about ready to fall asleep. It seemed that this year he had been getting no rest at all. Not three months had passed since it began, but he felt as though it should be over already.

Gúthwyn had not exactly been having a good year, either. His blood boiled as he remembered that night he had heard her screams from the tent, shrill and panicked against the quiet evening. He remembered realizing that Lumren had not come back to the tent; he remembered running out of the tent towards the sound of her voice, only to be passed by a thin, sprinting figure with golden hair flying out behind him. Haldor. Borogor considered himself a swift runner, but the Elf had easily outstripped him that night. He had arrived at the scene to see Lumren's corpse falling on a terrified Gúthwyn, the young woman shrieking in fright and hysteria.

Borogor sighed, trying to banish the unpleasant memories. He stood up and walked around for a bit, pausing to stand beside his brother. Beregil was sleeping peacefully, a faint smile upon his face. He wondered what the younger man was dreaming of. Home? Borogor barely remembered it, having been captured when he was twelve. Beregil had only been nine.

For a moment he watched his brother, taking comfort in the steady rising and falling of the man's chest. He was fully aware—painfully aware, in Gúthwyn's case—that he could not always protect those he wanted to, but to know that Beregil was safe eased the knot in his heart a little. And so he returned back to his pallet, sitting down and mulling these thoughts over. He had been there for just five minutes when a chilly breeze entered the tent, heralding Gúthwyn's return.

Immediately, he noticed that her hand was clamped firmly over her mouth, as though she were just barely holding back vomit or bile. She stumbled in the direction of her pallet, hunched over and wretched-looking, collapsing onto the ground with a soft thump. Her body curled up tightly, and she buried her face in her rag pillow, still clutching her mouth.

Hesitantly, Borogor got up and went to crouch down beside her. "Gúthwyn?" he asked quietly. Her muscles tightened and she cringed away from him. Her knuckles were white from gripping her jaw so much. "Are you hurt?"

She nodded and then shook her head. Her thin shoulders heaved up and down. Borogor paused, not wanting to question her anymore. But he needed to know if she was hurt; she had a tendency of trying to conceal her injuries, no matter how much harm they were doing her.

"Gúthwyn, are you hurt?"

There was silence. She kept her head face down in the pillow, one hand pressed against her mouth. "Do you feel sick?"

Gúthwyn trembled, but still did not answer. He was becoming worried. "Gúthwyn, please say something."

All of her body was shaking, and Borogor remained the conversation's only participant. "Gúthwyn, I need you to say something," he persisted, now genuinely frightened about what Haldor might have done to her.

She stirred, mumbling something into her pillow. Borogor leaned in, his heart freezing at the misery and despair reflected in her tone. She sounded as though her soul had shattered into a million pieces.

"I cannot hear you," he murmured gently. Once again her body tensed, and this time he heard her clearly. His stomach dropped.

"Go away."

Borogor stared at her in shock. He was rooted to where he knelt. Gúthwyn did not look up, but she sensed his presence.

"Go away," she repeated, her voice muffled against both her hand and the pillow. "Leave me alone!"

Slowly Borogor rose to his feet. The second-in-command looked down at Gúthwyn's frail, broken form, every instinct in his body telling him to remain by her side. But he obeyed her wishes, not wanting to deny her rare privacy. His knife was firmly tucked in his belt, and there were no other weapons with which she could harm herself.

He began backing out of the tent, pausing at the flap to glance back at where she lay. His heart clenched to see her small, grief-stricken shape curled up by itself, even more so when he realized that it was barely larger than Hammel's. _Gúthwyn, what has Haldor done to you?_ he wondered as he stepped out into the night.

The air was clear and unusually cold, making him draw his cloak tighter around him as he walked. His breath rose in wispy clouds before his face, and his boots fell upon the well-trodden ground of now empty pathways. He did not know where he was going; only that he needed some peace of mind to figure out how to help his friend.

His feet were carrying him down the rows of tents, pausing here and there to listen half-heartedly to snatches of the men's conversations. Many of them were still up at this hour, which probably accounted for their poor performances in the morning. Gúthwyn was not the only one who had trouble with archery.

Ten minutes later, he had wandered into the group of Easterling tents, a section rarely gone into anyone but their owners. They were often rowdy and jubilant late at night, but he had to admit grudgingly that the warriors were fierce and calculating. As he listened to their talk, he found himself rolling his eyes. It was all about women and the pleasures that they missed.

"What I would not give to have her underneath me…"

"You would be surprised at how good they are on top."

Appreciative chuckles accompanied the last mark, followed by a round of rough agreement.

"The rest of you might miss the pleasures of simple love-making." One voice rose above the rest, and Borogor realized that it was Burzum's. His fists clenched. "But as for me… There is nothing better than the feel of a woman's head between my legs."

Wild hooting and raucous laughter burst out. "Where it belongs!" someone called, and the noise doubled.

Their conversation turned to tales of past conquests, but Borogor's mind was focused on Burzum's comment. Images of Gúthwyn's hand clamped over her mouth floated unpleasantly to the top of his mind. _Surely not even Haldor…_ he thought, his face paling. _Not even he would do something so…_

All the same, he turned around and headed back, his pace considerably quickened. Tents flew by him as he strode to his own, determined to get the truth out of her. _If only so I do not have to think that Haldor violated her that way._

When he came back to the tent, however, his steps faltered. As he pushed open the flap and ducked inside, he unconsciously made his motions quieter. "Gúthwyn?" he whispered.

Her form shifted very slightly, but beyond that she gave no sign that she had even heard him. Borogor moved over to her, and saw that she was in the exact same position as she had been when he left her. "Gúthwyn," he murmured again, and reached out to softly touch her shoulder.

She stiffened horribly, pressing her hand even tighter over her mouth. Borogor hesitated, and then slowly began pulling her up. His friend moaned pitifully, struggling feebly against him. Her eyes were averted, and her shoulders were shaking uncontrollably.

"Gúthwyn, look at me," he said, though not unkindly. She obeyed, and he was stunned by how heartbroken and tormented her eyes were. They were staring at him in terror.

Gently but irresistibly, he took her hand and pulled it away from her mouth. Here she truly fought him, trying to pull away and even pushing his hand from her. But in her current state she was no match for him, and soon he held hers in his own. His breath caught in his throat: Both her hand and her lips had white fluids on them. Haldor's fluids.

His eyes met Gúthwyn's, and the disgust and horror on her face was mirrored on his own. With a shuddering gasp, Gúthwyn lunged for the bucket, retching into it with a sickening gagging sound. Stunned by how cruel and sadistic the Elf was, Borogor numbly held her hair away from her face. She choked at his touch. More vomit spewed into the bucket.

"Gúthwyn," he whispered over and over again, "I am so sorry." Her retching increased. Borogor himself felt sick with revulsion. He knew right away that this would never fully erase itself from her mind. And it seemed, from Gúthwyn's wretched moans, that she was aware of it all too well.


	43. Attempt at Recovery

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-One:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-One**

A gagging noise shook Borogor out of his fitful sleep, and for a moment he blinked in confusion. Where was he? What was going on? His back felt stiff, and he realized that he was half-propped up, half slumped against a soft surface. Bewildered, he struggled to sit up, sticking his fists in his eyes and rotating them fiercely.

The retching grew louder. Borogor straightened as he remembered the events of last night. Looking over, he saw Gúthwyn's quaking body hunched over the wooden bucket, liquid spewing out of her mouth. He was not five feet from her, leaning against the canvas wall—he must have fallen asleep sometime early in the morning. Guilt washed over him as he thought of his friend up sick by herself.

"Gúthwyn?" he asked softly. Ilúvatar, what time was it? A grey light was filtering in through the tent walls… Time to get moving, that was what.

She glanced up at him, her face haggard, drawn, and utterly mortified. Her eyes did not hold his for long. Red humiliation burned on her as she leaned over the bucket, vomiting once more.

Borogor frowned. "Gúthwyn, have you been doing this all night?" he questioned. In response, she whimpered, and showed him the nearly full container.

He swore under his breath. "Can you hold it in for a minute?"

Gúthwyn nodded slowly, but she looked hesitant. Borogor struggled to his feet, going over to her and taking the bucket. Trying not to breathe through his nose, he made his way to the front of the tent. "Come on, men, get up!" he called loudly as he went.

Outside he emptied the pail's contents, listening to the sounds of the warriors getting up for the day, Gúthwyn occupying his entire mind. Why was she vomiting so much? It was certainly not the first time he had seen her sick; the bucket had not moved from her pallet since he placed it there over a year ago. But he had never known her to continue for so long, and it troubled him. Was there something else Haldor had done?

He returned to her side a minute later. Gúthwyn had curled into a tight ball, clutching her stomach. No sooner had he put the container down than she reached out for it, raising herself slightly as she retched into it. Next to her, Hammel sat bolt upright.

"What is wrong?" the child asked, a note of fear in his voice.

Gúthwyn did not answer as she lay back down, shuddering and wrapping her thin blanket around herself.

"Gúthwyn?" Hammel pushed at her arms, becoming more anxious by the second.

Borogor placed a comforting hand on the boy's shoulder. "Do not worry," he lied, trying to sound confident. "She will be fine soon. Get your sister up and get ready."

The other men exchanged disbelieving looks behind Hammel's back, but none of them wanted to say anything. Borogor turned back to Gúthwyn, leaning close to her and whispering, "Gúthwyn, please say something. You are frightening the children."

She moaned, turning her head over so that it was buried in her pillow. Dark hair was plastered to her sweating neck. Borogor knew instantly that she was not going to be at the training grounds today.

"Is she alright?" Haiweth's worried, high-pitched voice met his ears.

"She will be," Borogor reassured the child. Haiweth tottered over to Gúthwyn and attempted to give her a hug, but there was no answer. Gúthwyn did not return the gesture, nor did she even move. "Haiweth," he said when the child began crying softly.

The little girl slumped down, still trying vainly to get a response. "Haiweth," Borogor repeated. She looked up at him, tears running down her face. "She is sick, but she will get better, do you understand?"

Haiweth sniffled, and Hammel chose her hesitancy to begin forcing her towards the door. The girl was startled out of her tears, and she dazedly let her brother push her outside after the other men. Only Beregil, Borogor, and Gúthwyn were left in the tent.

"Is she coming?" Beregil asked, and Borogor turned to see his brother standing next to him and looking concerned.

Borogor shook his head. "Give me a minute, and I will come with you." Beregil nodded, and Borogor turned back to his friend. "Gúthwyn," he said softly, and she cringed when he placed a hand on her shoulder. "Get some rest. I will come back in at some point to check on you."

Gúthwyn shivered, then suddenly sat up and lunged for the bucket. She vomited into it silently, shaking violently as she did so. Not once did she meet his eye, and when she was done she shied away from him and curled up tightly, once more drawing the blanket protectively over herself.

Sadly, Borogor stood up. "Come, Beregil," he said.

* * *

The afternoon sun was burning on the men's backs when Borogor saw Haldor for the first time that day. The Elf was watching the soldiers spar, eyes narrowed in concentration, making those near him nervous and occasionally stumble in their moves.

Borogor hesitated, wondering if he should go over and confront his commander about Gúthwyn. He had gone in to see her around noontime, only to find that she was still uncontrollably throwing up. Attempting to speak with her was futile. She seemed too terrified and ashamed to reply. He hated seeing her so frail like this; as a mouse in a cat's lair she was.

It had to come to an end, he decided. Haldor had to stop. Gúthwyn had had enough. No one deserved this kind of treatment, no matter how evil they were—and she was far from it.

At that moment the Elf looked up and caught his eye from twenty yards away. He seemed to know that Borogor wanted to talk to him and nodded, beckoning him over with a thin finger. The second-in-command strode over, keeping Gúthwyn's miserable face in his mind lest he lose his nerve.

"You wish to speak to me," Haldor stated coldly. Borogor had a sinking feeling that the Elf knew exactly what he was going to do.

"Yes," Borogor replied, inclining his head deferentially. "My lord, with all due respect, I was wondering if you would… if you would be less harsh on Gúthwyn."

Haldor's eyes narrowed. "Explain yourself."

Borogor's voice lowered. "Honestly, Haldor, did you think that last night was necessary?"

Haldor's eyes blinked slowly, and Borogor became conscious of just how little the Elf seemed to do that. It was unnerving. "I take amusement from her; that is all you need to know. The rest is none of your concern. She is a pathetic little whore."

"You lie!" Borogor hissed angrily before he realized what he was doing.

The Elf took a step closer. "You are treading on thin ice, Borogor," he said softly.

Borogor bowed his head, but did not apologize. Haldor noticed this, and his tone was icier when he next spoke.

"Did she told you all about it, then?" The Elf spat the next sentence out. "Did she cry?"

"She was too busy vomiting to say anything," Borogor retorted, growing more furious by the second. "I figured it out after I saw _your fluids_ on her mouth."

"Ah." Haldor looked pleased that he had caught on so easily. "Then you never heard about the new position Gúthwyn learned last night?"

The second-in-command paused, and Haldor smirked. "We took a rather… _indirect_ approach to love-making," he breathed. "The crude might call it 'this end up.'"

Borogor was not even aware that he had thrown a punch at the Elf until he was lying flat on his back, his eye throbbing in agony and Haldor's furious face looming over him. He groaned as a booted foot stomped down onto his chest.

"I will pardon this incident," Haldor snarled, pressing his foot onto Borogor's sternum harder, "only because you have served me faithfully for so many years."

Partly out of wordless rage, partly out of general helplessness, Borogor did not respond. Out of the corners of his eyes he could see a crowd gathering.

"You seem to have a soft spot for this whore," the Elf continued, and here his foot weighed so heavily upon the man that he was gasping for breath. "I care not whether you are her worst enemy or her best friend—you will not interfere with what I do to her. Rest assured that if you dare to challenge me in that regard, I will take your brother and tear him limb from limb! Do you understand me?"

Borogor grunted in assent, and Haldor gradually lifted his foot. The second-in-command remained on the ground as the Elf strode away. He could see the lines of men shifting to make room.

Dîrbenn's face suddenly appeared over him, along with an extended hand. Borogor took it, and as his friend pulled him to his feet he muttered, "What was that about?"

"Gúthwyn," Borogor replied in an equally low tone, rubbing his chest and wincing. He could already feel bruises forming around his eye.

"I would be careful if I were you." Dîrbenn looked worried. "If Haldor has claimed her as his own…"

"He is a monster," Borogor growled, and found himself actually shaking in hatred. All around them men were watching curiously, some of the Easterlings openly ecstatic about seeing the second-in-command being put in his place.

"Come on," Dîrbenn said, and putting a hand on Borogor's back began steering him out of the circle. The men scattered, not wanting to be punished for standing idly around. "You have done enough for her. She can look after herself."

"Dîrbenn," Borogor said, "have you not seen how he controls her? She can look after herself no more than the children can!"

"All the same, that is no reason to endanger yourself for her sake," Dîrbenn swiftly replied.

Borogor stopped, and sent such a fierce glare towards his friend that the man took a step back. "Peace," Dîrbenn said, raising his hands. "I meant no insult on her behalf."

"No, I am sorry," Borogor answered, suddenly sighing. "I have not been getting much sleep lately, and I am not in a good mood. I should not have lashed out at you like that."

Dîrbenn sent him a pitying look as they parted ways, but Borogor thought Gúthwyn could have used the pity more than he could have.

* * *

When the men returned to the tent, Borogor saw with a sinking heart that his friend was still vomiting. The room reeked of it.

"Gúthwyn," he said, going over and crouching down beside her. She lifted her head from the bucket, the rest of her body sweaty and trembling violently. Her eyes focused on his own, and she stared in confusion.

For a moment Borogor was puzzled; then he remembered what his eye must look like. "An accident," he explained, rubbing his hand over it. It still hurt a little.

Gúthwyn glanced back down, folding her arms protectively around herself and shrinking away.  
"Have you gotten any sleep?" he asked her. She shook her head, and when her eyes flickered up to him he saw that they were wide with panic. He suddenly felt incredibly sorry for her, spending the entire day alone and throwing up uncontrollably. It was no wonder that she was frightened. But what could he do to amend that?

He stood up, stretching, and was surprised to see Gúthwyn follow suit. Her tangled hair fell over her face as she bent down to pick up the bucket; a grimace crossed her features as the action put a strain on her. She looked like the most wretched creature in the world.

"Gúthwyn," he spoke, and she jumped, straightening herself and standing before him like—his heart fell—an obedient slave. The unmistakable terror and fear smothering her was painful to see. "Come here," he whispered.

She complied, approaching him with her head bowed and her body shaking; he drew her close, wrapping his arms around her—not caring that she had been sick, nor that the other men were watching and probably covering up grins unsuccessfully. He felt her stiffen in surprise, then collapse into his embrace.

"You are going to be fine," he told her firmly, wanting his friend to believe it more than anything else. "Do you understand? This will all be over soon."

Her head shook frantically, but he refused to let her have that frame of mind. "Gúthwyn, this will pass. You will survive. The children are waiting for you to get better so you can care for them. None of us can do that. They need you—and you _will_ recover, regardless of what you may think now."

The young woman's thin arms weakly returned the embrace, but her body was worn down and could barely function. "You need to get some sleep," he told her, and once more her muscles tensed in fear. Nightmares… the darkness… Borogor would not have wanted to, either, if it were him.

He released her, and she pulled away shakily. "Lie down," he said, gesturing to her pallet. When she showed signs of hesitating, he added gently, "Do not worry."

Gradually Gúthwyn lowered herself onto it, clutching at her stomach as she did so. Borogor knelt beside her, careful to keep himself in view so that she did not panic. When he and Beregil were over a decade younger—almost two decades—their mother had gotten them to sleep by singing old songs from her childhood. Borogor could not sing for his life, but he wondered…

"Did your mother ever sing you to sleep when you were younger?" he asked. Gúthwyn frowned, turning on her side and looking up at him.

"My mother died when I was three," she whispered hoarsely, the first words she had spoken since she returned from Haldor's tent.

Borogor was taken by surprise. "I-I am sorry," he apologized emphatically. "I had no idea."

Gúthwyn fell back into silence, staring hollowly at a spot on the wall behind him. On top of everything, Borogor thought wearily, she had no mother. "Your father, then?"

"Dead, along with my sister and my brother." Her voice could barely be heard. "All I have left is an uncle who… who allowed me to be captured, and his son."

"I am so sorry," he replied, and his words were not empty. He could not imagine being in his friend's situation. At least he had Beregil, and the knowledge that his mother and father were probably safe back at home. "Gúthwyn, I…"

"It is nothing," she cut him off, and closed her eyes, shivering. She was so pale and drawn that it almost made him ill to see it.

There was an awkward silence. "Do you remember any songs from your childhood?" Borogor asked after awhile.

A moment's pause, and then a dull nod. Her face was turning whiter by the second, accompanied by the erratic rising and falling of her chest. A blanket was covering her, but she was still shaking.

"Gúthwyn," he said, placing a hand on her shoulder. Fearful eyes gazed up at him. "Take slow, deep breaths."

She tried to do as he bid, but it was a losing battle. "In and out," he encouraged her, recognizing that soon her nervousness would become a full-blown panic attack if nothing was done. "Just concentrate on breathing. In and out. You are going to be fine."

Both of his hands were on her shoulders now, but she did not seem to notice as she struggled to follow his instructions. A minute passed, and then another. Several more had gone by before her attempts gradually began working.

"Good," he whispered as she visibly relaxed. "Now think of a song from home. Do not forget to breathe."

Soon he could see her lips forming silent words. At one point he glanced up across the tent. A smile came to his face as he saw Beregil doing the same.

"Get some sleep," he murmured to both of them. Gúthwyn's body was becoming limper, and her eyes were closing.

She was asleep not five minutes later, inhaling and exhaling deeply, some of the color returning to her face. Borogor remained where he was, thinking of the past, present, and future. His hand reached out to stroke her hair. Such was his thought that he did not even realize it until half an hour later, when he looked down and saw his fingers running through her dark locks. For once, he did not pull away.


	44. Beregil

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Two:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor and Beregil are modifications of Beregond and Bergil, two citizens of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible. 

**Chapter Forty-Two**

The sword was placed lightly at Beregil's throat. "Yield," he groaned, looking up at Gúthwyn.

She lowered her weapon, offering her hand and helping him up. "Not up to your usual standards today," she said. Not once, in half an hour, had he managed to beat her.

Beregil put his hands on his knees, ducking his head and breathing deeply. "I think my brother taught you too well," he muttered, though not resentfully.

Gúthwyn felt a glow of pride at his words. Out of the two years that she had been in Mordor, she and Borogor had been practicing furiously whenever they got a chance for three-quarters of them. There were now only a few warriors in the entire camp who could fairly defeat her in a match—Burzum, Borogor, and, of course, Haldor.

She unconsciously shivered as she thought of the Elf. In addition to Borogor's lessons, Haldor's punishments had continued regularly. Mercifully he had not introduced any new ways of humiliating her, but she could not help wondering how long that would last.

"Gúthwyn?" Beregil's uncomfortable voice broke into her musings.

"Sorry," she replied, and looked back at him. He was staring over her shoulder.

With a sinking feeling in her stomach, she turned around to see Haldor approaching them. Resisting the urge to run away, Gúthwyn settled for backing into Beregil, wincing as the Elf drew nearer.

"You two, follow me," Haldor commanded when he was in front of them. Gúthwyn and Beregil exchanged looks.

"Practice is not yet done, my lord," Beregil replied, bowing as he spoke.

"Then you will miss the last ten minutes," the Elf snarled. His eyes fell on Gúthwyn, and she trembled. "Move!"

They had no choice but to follow as he began leading them towards his tent. Wild thoughts were running through Gúthwyn's mind. Why would Haldor want Beregil with her? Was he going to torture him as well, or make him watch? And if so, why him instead of Borogor?

The unlikely trio was outside Haldor's tent in less than a minute: The Elf's pace had been remarkably fast. Haldor beckoned them in, pushing Gúthwyn when for a moment her feet failed her. She landed on the floor painfully.

"Let her get up by herself!" The growl stopped Beregil, who had offered Gúthwyn his hand, in his tracks.

"Sorry, my lord," Beregil responded, trying not to sound nervous and failing horribly.

Gúthwyn struggled to her feet, cringing as she looked up into piercing blue eyes. "Take your shirt off," Haldor spat at her. She paled. It had been almost three months since her back had suffered at the point of Haldor's knife, and a foolish part of her had been hoping that the punishment was now obsolete.

She turned to the wall and removed the tunic, wondering if Beregil would be forced to torture her. The fabric fell in a crumpled heap to the ground. Try as she might to calm herself, her body was shaking furiously. She did not want this pain…

"Face him," Haldor ordered, and she complied dutifully, swiveling around so that she stood half bare before Beregil. _Obey Haldor,_ Gúthwyn thought to herself. _Less trouble that way._

Beregil looked flustered. Gúthwyn was no longer terribly concerned with modesty, especially in front of Borogor's brother: The Valar knew what he had seen of her by now. Yet, never really as hardened by the harsh surroundings as others, Beregil was unable to feign nonchalance. "Shall I-I be g-going, my lord?" he asked, taking a step towards the tent flap.

"Stay," Haldor said, and pressed a knife into the man's hand. "Did you see her back?"

Gúthwyn watched as Beregil nodded, swallowing hard and glancing quickly at her before turning to Haldor. "I-I do not understand," he spoke.

Haldor sighed. "You are going to take your brother's job today," he retorted, looking annoyed that he had to explain himself. "You are going to cut her open. You will have her blood on your hands. Is that simple enough?"

Beregil's eyes widened in shock. His grip on the knife became tighter. "I cannot do that," he muttered, shaking a little.

"Beregil, it is f—" Gúthwyn began, but was cut off by Haldor.

"Shut your mouth," he hissed at her. Then he stared at Beregil. "Make your choice," he said hardly, and a sudden, cold dread seized Gúthwyn. _Please, Beregil, torture me,_ she found herself thinking. _Do not place yourself under Haldor's wrath._

But as she saw Beregil shifting on his feet, she saw with a sinking heart that he was stirring himself to refuse. He had always worn his emotions on his sleeve, and she could tell that he was trying to go the chivalrous way out. Borogor would not harm a lady, and neither would he. _I am far, far from a lady,_ she thought. The differences between the two brothers suddenly seemed to fill an entire ocean.

He was truly stirring himself up to do something noble, but Gúthwyn knew that it was a mistake. _No, Beregil, please do as he tells you,_ she prayed.

Yet it was not to be. "No," he said at last, shakily but proudly, and dropped the knife. It fell with a metallic _clang_ onto the floor. "I will not."

For an instant, Gúthwyn saw an unfathomable fury cross over the Elf. _Beregil, I fear we will suffer the consequences of your choice very soon._ She quivered to think of what the Elf would do.

"As you wish," Haldor said at that moment, and Gúthwyn froze, staring at him in shock. The Elf's face was understanding and calm, as though he had reared himself under control. "Gúthwyn, you may go," he managed with seemingly no small amount of effort, and even gave her a sardonic bow.

Éomund's daughter was rooted to the floor, dumbfounded. Seconds ago, she would have thought Beregil a dead man—arguably in the literal sense. Haldor had certainly never given her any slack, so why was he letting Beregil do as he wanted? She knew Borogor had some leeway, as he was the second-in-command, but she was positive that Beregil did not lord any power over the other men.

"Move along," Haldor said, interrupting her thoughts, and at the barely-concealed impatience in his voice Gúthwyn hurried to retrieve her shirt and pull it on. As she did, the Elf spoke to Beregil. "Will you stay behind for a moment? I have a message that needs to be delivered to Borogor, and I did not see him today."

"Of course," Beregil replied eagerly, sounding intensely relieved that he was not going to be forced to torture his brother's best friend.

"Are you waiting for the new year?" Haldor asked Gúthwyn suddenly, and she jumped.

"I suppose… I will see you later, then," she told Beregil, and the man nodded at her. She turned away and left the tent, emerging into the swiftly darkening sky and breathing in the air deeply. A part of her could hardly believe she had escaped punishment. What a wonderful treat! But then she frowned, for she had just thought of a disturbing discrepancy.

Beregil had point-blank refused to torture her, and Haldor had let him go. Surely Borogor, then, having a much higher rank than his brother, would have been allowed to do the same. However, Borogor had done the job without protest, saying that Beregil's life was at stake—yet Haldor had never blackmailed Beregil with Borogor's life. And now that she thought of it, when had she ever heard Beregil being threatened?

She trusted Borogor with her life. No one had ever done so much for her and expected so little in return. But how was it that he had tortured her so easily, while Beregil had utterly rejected the idea?

_Do not think those things,_ she told herself, shivering as she neared her tent. _Borogor would do just about anything for you. He would never harm you for his own amusement._

Yet the seeds of discontent were planted in her mind. As the tent flap opened and Borogor came striding out to meet her, she found herself taking a step or two back.

"Gúthwyn," Borogor said, looking distraught. "Where is Beregil?"

She stared at him, a thousand questions running through her. Why had Borogor claimed to torture her for Beregil's sake, while the younger one had refused and gotten away with it?

"Gúthwyn!" Strong hands reached out and gripped her shoulders tightly, lifting her up so that her face was aligned with Borogor's. "_Where is Beregil?_"

He would not release her, even when she squirmed frantically under his clutch. "Let go!" she gasped, struggling to put her feet down. "Borogor!"

Borogor lowered her, yet did not relinquish his hold. "_Where is he?_" he demanded, and suddenly she blurted out what had been bothering her.

"Why did you torture me?"

An impatient frown crossed his face, and her shoulders trembled slightly. "I told you, if I had not Beregil would have died! Now _where is my brother?_"

She tried to pull away from him, but immediately she felt her body being shaken violently. There was an inhuman, desperately wild look in Borogor's eyes. "Answer the question!" he roared at her. "I saw the two of you leaving with him! Answer me!"

"Why did you torture me so easily if Beregil just refused?" she screamed back at him. People were shouting in the background. "You were never threatened with his life, were you?"

Unexpectedly Borogor let go of her. He stepped back, his eyes wide. Gúthwyn thought she could see the light of torches in them. "He refused?" he breathed.

"Yes," she retorted, "yet Haldor—"

"Gúthwyn, I will not ask you again," he cut her off sharply, and she was surprised to see panic on his features as well as frustration. "_Where is my brother?_"

"Haldor held him back to deliver—"

A ghastly scream suddenly echoed throughout the camp. Gúthwyn whirled around, and saw hundreds of people converging on the training grounds, yelling and jeering. Many of them were clutching torches. There seemed to be a space that they were all circling around, but she could not make out what was in it.

She turned back to Borogor. "What was that?" she asked shakily. He stood there, the look on his face so strange that for a moment she could not place it. And then she realized: Borogor was terribly, horribly, afraid.

"Gúthwyn, get in the tent and stay there with the children!" he yelled. Another shriek rose, more hideous than the last.

"Borogor, what—"

"Do it!" he shouted, and started sprinting towards the source of the commotion. Gúthwyn made up her mind.

Running into the tent, she saw Hammel and Haiweth huddled together in a corner, fearful of the noises outside. "Hammel, Haiweth," she said, coming over to them.

"What is happening?" the boy asked her, holding his sister tightly. Haiweth watched their exchange with frightened eyes.

"Listen, I need the two of you to _stay in here_, do you understand me?" she replied. "Hammel, I am putting you in charge of Haiweth. The two of you _must_ stay in here. Everything will be fine if you do."

They nodded, and she ruffled the hair on their heads before standing up. "I will be back soon!" she called over her shoulder, and tore out of the tent to follow Borogor.

He was almost at the crowd of men. As more agonized screams rose into the air, Gúthwyn pumped her legs harder. If there was one thing she could do besides fighting, it was running. She pushed herself faster than she had ever gone before, an awful sense of dread worming its way into her gut.

Borogor reached the mob at that moment, and a sudden hush fell over the soldiers. They parted, opening up a line for him to walk through. There was another shriek. Somehow, it sounded familiar…

Gúthwyn stopped at the edge of the crowd, staring along with the others at Borogor's hunched figure slowly making its way towards the center. Whispers and mutterings ran through the crowd. There was something Borogor was walking to: The pile of rocks that she, him, and the children had used so often. But today, they were different—a figure lay sprawled upon it…

She gasped in horror as Beregil screamed again, writhing in utter agony. He was completely naked, blood running in rivers down his body, originating—she nearly gagged—from several spears that had pinned him down to the rock. They were sticking out of his arms, hands, legs, and feet, cruelly keeping him alive through avoiding the vital areas.

In the midst of all this, Borogor entered the clearing. The crowd stirred even more, and now she could see Haldor standing there, all of the captains of the various troops in a line behind him. One of them was Burzum.

As she watched in terror, Borogor approached the Elf, his head bowed. "Welcome, Borogor!" Haldor called, loud enough for everyone to hear. Gúthwyn found herself wanting to sob.

Borogor stood absolutely still. None of the observers seemed to breathe.

"The other captains have all had their turn," Haldor spoke, and Burzum stepped forward. There was a spear in his hand, which he presented to the Elf. Borogor stiffened.

Haldor approached his second-in-command, wrapping an arm around his shoulder and turning him around to face Beregil. The young man was giving off high-pitched screams as his blood seeped onto the rocks. Gúthwyn thought she would be sick.

"Make your choice," the Elf said, and put the spear in Borogor's hand.

Gúthwyn froze, staring in horror at her friend. The scene was too much like what had just happened in Haldor's tent. She felt like she was going to suffocate.

The crowd murmured amongst itself as Haldor released Borogor and strode back to the other captains. All eyes were on the second-in-command as he walked slowly to the center of the opening, and turned to stand right in front of Beregil.

_No, Borogor, please do not do it!_ Gúthwyn pleaded wordlessly. The young man's wounds were serious, but they could be healed… hopefully. She wondered if she should run back to the tent and get all the bandages they had.

But her feet remained where they were as Borogor hefted the spear up. Beregil's lips were moving feverishly. "Please…" he choked out, and blood spurted from his mouth. No one made a sound.

"Beregil!" Borogor called out to his brother, and his voice wavered. He took a step towards the broken figure.

"Please…" Beregil begged, and now tears were streaming down his face.

Borogor held the spear in position, and whispered something that no one could hear. Yet Beregil visibly relaxed, closing his eyes and tilting his head back.

Horrified, Gúthwyn and the other warriors watched as Borogor took aim and threw. Time seemed to spiral slowly down as the spear floated through the air, heading for Beregil's limp and unmoving body. _Please, let it miss!_ she prayed frantically. _Please, please…_

With a sickening _thump_, the tip of the spear embedded itself in Beregil's heart. The man did not even stir as his life was taken. A harrowing silence hung over the crowd. No one dared to speak as Borogor sunk to his knees, burying his face in his hands.

"And this, soldiers, is what happens to men who disobey their superiors!" As Haldor yelled out to the dumbstruck crowd, his eyes focused on where Gúthwyn stood alone. He smirked triumphantly.

Suddenly she was running away, her feet slapping at the ground frantically and the nausea welling up. Tents whipped by her as she sprinted, panting hysterically in the cold night air. She reached her tent and crumbled to the ground, vomiting uncontrollably. Her entire body was shaking. _Why, Borogor, why?_ she thought, wanting to cry for poor Beregil. _Why did you kill your brother?_

There were footsteps beside her. She looked up and saw Dîrbenn standing there. Like her, he had been too disgusted to remain at the site.

"I thought you were supposed to stay with the children," he said, but he was not angry. His gaze kept returning to the swiftly dispersing crowd.

Gúthwyn wiped her mouth on her sleeve, almost missing because her arm was trembling so much. "He killed him…" she whispered, her voice cracking.

"I have seen his death coming ever since he arrived in Mordor," Dîrbenn replied, and she could not help but agree.

* * *

Night had fallen over Mordor. The camp was silent, events of the day still hanging over everyone's mind like a dark cloud. Neither Borogor nor Beregil had returned to the tent—Gúthwyn knew the latter could not help it, but she was getting worried for her friend.

She stretched her legs out, attempting vainly to warm them by the lantern. It was cold out, yet she shivered not from the chill but from the memory of the spear flying into Beregil's heart, ending the poor man's life in an instant. The look on Borogor's face as he had thrown the spear… She did not want to think about it.

Borogor was still out on the grounds. None of the other men in the tent knew where he was; they had last seen him on his knees before his brother, his face in his hands and despair all but choking him. Gúthwyn had assumed that her friend's absence was simply because he was burying Beregil, but hours had passed and he had not come back.

"Do you think… think that he has… done something?" she asked Dîrbenn, who had come over to try to warm his hands over the lantern.

Dîrbenn shook his head, but he looked unsure. "Not Borogor," he replied. "He is as steady as the fortress of Barad-dûr."

Gúthwyn recalled her friend's rage when she had returned from Haldor's tent without Beregil. He had gone so far as to grab her and lift her by the shoulders, shaking her furiously until she had told him where his brother was. She would never forget the look of fear upon his face when she did, nor the absolute terror she had seen when the men poured onto the training grounds.

How Borogor was feeling right now, she could not even imagine. Looking over at the sleeping children, she found herself a thousand times more grateful that she had them by her side. No matter what she had to endure for their well being, events such as Beregil's death made her realize that it was all worth it. At least they were with her, safe and relatively sound; Borogor, on the other hand, had just lost his one remaining family member.

Her heart clenched as she thought of him, digging Beregil's grave alone. It would have been enough to drive her mad, if she had to bury her siblings' bodies or the children's. Enough to make her want to kill herself. And she almost had, once… When Haldor had forced her to eat, when he had made her swallow her own vomit before even starting on the disgusting carcass, she had truly wanted to end her life.

The knife on the floor of the tent when she returned had seemed like a gift from above, or a sign that someone was answering her prayers. Yet once again, Borogor had saved her—whether he knew it or not, she had never found out. He had emerged from the shadows as she was about to slit her throat, the action startling her and causing her to drop the blade.

Whom would Borogor have, then, if he tried to take such drastic action? Like Dîrbenn said, he was usually calm and collected. But she could not stop thinking of him screaming at her, demanding to know where his brother was. Haldor, handing him the spear and all but telling him to end Beregil's life. His wretched form crumpling to the ground as the life drained out of the poor man. And on top of that, he had never gotten to say goodbye…

Gúthwyn stood up. "I am going to try and find him," she whispered. "It has been far too long; I worry for him."

Dîrbenn nodded. "Do you want me to come with you?" he asked.

For a moment she hesitated. She did not want to walk alone in the dark, yet she also thought that Borogor would prefer the company of less. "I will be fine," she replied.

"Good luck."

* * *

Gúthwyn had first gone back to the site of Beregil's death, but she had not been surprised to see neither of them there. One thing that struck her, though, was the conspicuous absence of the spears—surely Borogor would not have needed them, if he was burying his brother, and removed them beforehand?

A thread of worry spun itself into her mind, and her steps hastened. She began walking around the edge of the training grounds, terrified to be going out so far in the dark. Her arms were wrapped tightly around herself as she took halting step by halting step forward. As she went, she listened for sound of movement, or of a human's footsteps, all the while praying that she would run into nothing other than her friend.

She turned around a small pile of slag, and her heart leapt. A flickering light was originating from behind a bend in the rock. Her pace considerably quickened, Gúthwyn strode over to it. Careful to be quiet, not wishing to disturb Borogor in a private moment, she crept behind the rocks and peered around them.

Borogor was digging Beregil's grave with his bare hands, beads of sweat running down his tortured face as he worked. He had removed his shirt, and she could see all the muscles in his arms straining to finish the task. Beregil lay next to the growing hole, all of the spears in a neat pile beside him. The young man's wounds had all been tenderly wrapped in dark cloth, and he looked almost peaceful in death.

Gúthwyn barely managed to repress a sob. The injustice of it all was cruelly mocking them. Beregil deserved to die no more than the children did. Yet there he was, sprawled upon the ground, never to get up again. And for what? Because he had tried to be kind and refused to torture her? Because he was afraid to do what was required of him, when it meant harming a helpless being? Because he had stood up to Haldor?

At that moment Borogor looked up and saw her. For a second he was still; then he returned to his work. Slowly, she moved around the rock and came to kneel at his side. Without a word, she began helping him dig the grave. Tears stung at her eyes, only to be bitterly blinked away. This was more than anyone should have had to go through, least of all Borogor—he had sacrificed so much, and received so little in return.

All too soon, the pit was deep enough. Her hands now stained with dirt, Gúthwyn stood up and stepped back. Borogor got to his feet and came to his brother. She noticed that he took care to wipe his hands off before touching Beregil. The lump in her throat hardened as she watched him gently lift the dead body, touching the face and heart with such tenderness that she wanted to cry.

Borogor was lying him down in the grave, as a mother puts a child to sleep, only there would be no waking up for Beregil. Her friend's face was taut as he bent down, placing a kiss on Beregil's brow. "Farewell," he whispered.

It was then that she almost lost it. A choked moan escaped her; she stuffed her hand into her mouth and turned away, unable to watch as Borogor buried his brother. She could hear the dirt being thrown onto Beregil's body, nothing more than soft _thumps_ in the still night. Picturing the man's face being covered by the dark earth, she nearly sunk to her knees in despair.

Soon, all was silent. Hesitantly, she turned around to see Borogor standing beside a fresh mound of dirt, his head bowed.

"Borogor…"

He glanced at her, and she was surprised to see something like anger coming over him. _Steady as the fortress of Barad-dûr,_ Dîrbenn had said, and she thought she was about to find out just how wrong he was.

"Why?" she asked, wanting to fill the painful silence. "Why did you kill him? Could you not have—"

"You idiot!" he suddenly roared, and the sound exploded into the darkness. Gúthwyn took a terrified step away from him, but he bore down on her, such a fierce glare in his eyes that for an awful instant she was reminded of Haldor. "You fool! This is all your fault!"

And then he slapped her, the noise so shattering that it hurt her more than his hand did. Gúthwyn's head whipped to the side, and she put a shaking palm to her cheek. It was already stinging.

She stared at him, horrified, and his eyes were wide with shock and disgust. "Ilúvatar…" he breathed, and his legs buckled. He sank to the ground. "What have I done?"

Before Gúthwyn knew what was happening he was crying—great, heart wrenching sobs that shook his entire body. She froze, not sure what to do. For so long, Borogor had been the shoulder that _she_ leaned on; now that the situation was reversed, she found herself utterly lost and bewildered.

His face was in his hands, but she could see the tears falling to the ground. The throbbing moans were echoing poignantly in her ears, and she knew that she could not just walk away and leave him to deal with his grief by himself.

She crouched down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shuddering form and starting to massage his back. Soothing noises were coming from her lips, ones that she never would have imagined herself murmuring. And still Borogor's sobs resonated into the night; she could feel every vibration of his body against her own.

"Borogor," she whispered over and over again, rocking him back and forth as his misery soaked their surroundings. "None of this was your fault… You protected him like no one else would have. He has gone to a better place, I know it."

None of her words made any difference; she recognized and understood it well. But she said them anyway, wanting Borogor to know that no one blamed him in the slightest, wanting to be some source of comfort to her friend.

Even when his tears subsided, they remained there, sitting in the dirt beside Beregil's grave and mourning the cruel blows Mordor dealt. In that hour he leaned on her, such as he had never done before, and she did not cringe away from his touch but welcomed it. _Beregil,_ she thought, sending a prayer up to the heavens for the man, _may you find peace in your new home. Know that you will not be forgotten._


	45. Fever

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Three:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-Three**

"Gúthwyn!" Haiweth's voice echoed in her ears, just as she had been about to fall asleep. Two small hands pushed at her shoulders. "Gúthwyn!"

Sitting up tiredly, Gúthwyn rubbed her eyes and looked at the impatient child next to her. Only in the past year had the girl learned how to properly say her name. She was five years old now; Gúthwyn herself was almost nineteen. It had been nearly three years since she and the children had arrived in Mordor—three long, miserable years.

"What is it?" she asked, shivering at the semi-darkness that lay over the tent. Even though there was a lantern burning in the corner, she still felt vulnerable and afraid.

"Hammel won't answer me," Haiweth complained, pointing a small finger at her brother.

"Maybe he is asleep," Gúthwyn suggested. _As I was about to be._ When she glanced over at the boy, she saw that he was lying face down on his pallet. Something unusual, in itself, as he normally was stretched flat out on his back, but she knew he had been tired earlier.

"But he's _hot_," Haiweth replied.

Gúthwyn frowned. Getting up at last, she went around to where Hammel was and kneeled beside him. "Hammel?" she whispered, gently prodding the boy.

He stirred, turning over to look up at her. Was it just her imagination, or were his eyes glazed?

"What?" he murmured.

"Are you feeling ill?" she asked him, placing a hand on his forehead. It was burning.

"Sick."

Gúthwyn felt a small twinge of panic. Hammel had a fever. She had seen men who had succumbed to this illness and never risen again. Strong, healthy men.

There was movement beside her, and she glanced up to see Borogor crouching down before Hammel. "Does he have a fever?" he questioned, and put his hand on the boy's forehead.

"Yes," Gúthwyn answered shakily. "He was fine this afternoon; just a little tired."

Hammel's bleary eyes watched their exchange. "We do not have much to treat this," Borogor said worriedly. "The best thing you can do is keep him cold when he gets hot, and keep him warm when he gets the chills. Make sure he drinks fluids, as well—and he will be needing that bucket."

Gúthwyn nodded, absorbing it all urgently. "What about food?"

"Just give him a little, and see if he can keep it down," Borogor advised her. "It should break before three days' time."

"What if it does not?" She could not rid her voice of fear. "What if—"

"He will be fine," Borogor said calmingly, and his steady gaze met hers. Then he turned to Hammel, who was still awake. "Hammel?"

The boy groaned, but he seemed to know where he was. Haiweth watched her brother nervously, chewing on her upper lip.

"How do you feel?"

"Hot," Hammel replied, and shoved his end of the blanket towards Haiweth.

"Where are you hot?"

"Everywhere."

Borogor looked at Gúthwyn. "Not for anything," he muttered, lowering his voice so that neither of the children could hear, "but we are leaving for Ithilien in five days. Haldor will not excuse you from it."

"I thought you said the fever would only last three days," she said, her eyes widening.

"The fever is contagious, Gúthwyn," Borogor reminded her. "Our bodies might be strong enough to repel it, but Haiweth's is certainly not."

Gúthwyn trembled, already feeling the weight on her shoulders.

"I will speak to Haldor, but I might not even be able to get you time off to take care of the children."

Her heart dropped. "But they cannot—"

"Do not trouble yourself," Borogor cut her off before she could start panicking. "Trust me, Gúthwyn, I will do everything in my power to convince him to let you stay here. In the meantime, watch over Hammel. Let me know if his fever takes a turn for the worse."

Once more she nodded. "Thank you," she whispered as he stood up, and glanced back at Hammel.

The boy's eyes were closed, but she could still see them moving underneath the lids. Despite having no blanket, he was beginning to sweat as well. Gúthwyn put her hand on his forehead again. If anything, he felt hotter.

"Gúthwyn?" Haiweth asked, quavering as she watched her brother. "What's wrong?"

"Your brother has gotten sick," Gúthwyn responded, running her fingers through Hammel's hair. "We are going to pretend to be healers."

She tried to smile at Haiweth, to say that yes, being a healer was fun, but either she had forgotten how or her muscles refused to cooperate.

"What's a healer?" Haiweth wanted to know. She looked puzzled.

"They take care of the ill," Gúthwyn replied, sighing. "It is getting late; you should get some rest. I will wake you up in the morning."

"Good night," the girl said, casting one last serious stare at Hammel before lying down next to him. Within moments, she was breathing steadily, her eyes closed peacefully against the world and her face free of all troubles.

Gúthwyn envied the children sorely. Sleep never came easy to her—many hours in the dark night did she spend, shivering in fear, trying desperately to keep from thinking of Haldor's body pressed on hers, or his hands on her stomach… Yet lonely nights were rare. Ever since Beregil's death, Borogor had been keeping her company, unable to fall asleep either. He had never forgiven himself for ending his brother's life, though she had tried fervently to make him see that it was not his fault.

One night, just a week after Beregil had been buried, Gúthwyn had woken up and heard Borogor moaning in his sleep, crying out for his brother and begging for forgiveness. More terrified than she wanted to admit at the sight of her friend, she had crawled over and shook him awake. There had been no more nightmares since then, but the memory still haunted her.

She looked at Borogor now. He was speaking quietly with Dîrbenn, leaning back against the tent canvas and drumming his fingers on the ground. The light from the lantern added a soft glow to his skin, and his normally dark hair was almost golden. As she watched, he glanced over and saw her. He gave a small smile, and for a moment it was mirrored on her own face. Then she turned back to Hammel, worry coming over her as the boy stirred fretfully.

_Let us hope that his fever does not get worse,_ she prayed.

* * *

Close to midnight, Hammel woke up and began throwing up. Gúthwyn spent the next several hours by his side, holding him as he huddled over the bucket, feeling the heat from his body burning against her. He was moaning in discomfort, his small frame shaking violently with each retching fit.

She was growing more and more nervous as this continued, stretching from one hour into the next. Despite a growing need for sleep, she did not dare to close her eyes. Borogor rose early in the morning, long enough to ask her if she wanted him to watch over Hammel, but she declined his offer. The boy's vomiting was subsiding, but every now and then he would weakly pitch forward, and liquid would spatter into the almost full bucket.

It was nearly dawn when he at last fell asleep again. Gúthwyn was so tired that she would have gladly keeled over and done the same, but she knew that she needed to stay awake in case he took a turn for the worse. She had assumed her station right between him and Haiweth, carefully moving the girl over onto her own pallet.

The light outside the tent was grey and chill when Borogor sat up, stretching his arms and looking over at her. "How is he?" he asked concernedly.

Gúthwyn shook her head wearily. "Not getting any better," she replied. "At least he is asleep."

"You should get some rest, as well," Borogor suggested. "Have you had anything to eat or drink?"

She shook her head. "I am fine."

Borogor stood up, and moved to the tent flap. He ducked outside for a moment, returning with the package of meat that had been delivered earlier. "Here," he said, coming over and handing her a piece. She took it gingerly, by the tips of two fingers, wrinkling her nose in disgust. Borogor gave her a sympathetic look, but he could not lie to Haldor, and they both knew it.

As she struggled to eat the carcass, he stepped away and raised his voice. "Everyone, get up!" he called, and she abandoned her food in favor of watching the other men awakening. Most of them merely stumbled out the door, picking up some food along the way, stuffing it into their mouths as they disappeared from view. Gúthwyn nearly gagged at the sight of them doing so.

Haiweth was struggling to remove the sleep from her eyes. "Hammel?" the child murmured blearily, reaching out for her brother.

Gúthwyn took her hand. "Careful," she said, trying to sound cheerful. "You do not want to become sick yourself."

"Want to sleep," Haiweth answered, and tried to lie back down.

At that moment Borogor came to stand beside them. Gúthwyn looked up at him, and he shook his head.

"No, Haiweth." Gúthwyn gently pushed her back up. "You will go with Borogor, alright?"

"Don't _want_ to," Haiweth insisted, burying her face in her hands.

"Haiweth, go," Gúthwyn replied, kindly enough but with a stern undertone. The girl moaned, but reluctantly stood up to take Borogor by the arm.

Gúthwyn shifted slightly over to the right, hoping to keep the meat from Borogor's view so she would not have to eat it, but when she glanced at him his eyes were narrowed. Her shoulders slumped. "Borogor…" she whispered.

Still holding Haiweth, Borogor knelt down. "I cannot deceive him," he said. "It will do you good. Have at least three bites before we leave."

She did as he told her, knowing that he had only her well being in mind. But the thought did not stop her from shuddering horribly as the slippery meat ran down her throat. When she had finished, and managed to keep it in her stomach for several seconds, Borogor nodded, and bid her good luck with Hammel. Gúthwyn watched them walk out of the tent, wishing that she could have gone with them. But instead she turned back to the poor boy, now soaking rags in water and putting them on his forehead while he slept.

The day passed in a hellish haze. Hammel woke up every hour or so, and all but threw up his entire stomach before falling back unconscious. Not once did tears come down his face, but he moaned with each bout of retching, muttering all sorts of things that she could not even begin to decipher. Although it might have been her mind that could not make sense of the dazed sentences—she was so tired that she could barely think straight.

Try as she might, Gúthwyn had not brought Hammel's fever down by the time the men returned from training, holding their noses as they entered the tent against the awful stench of vomit. Many of them cast angry glares at her, but she held Hammel closer and thought defensively that the boy could not help it if he was sick.

"How is he?" Borogor's voice asked, and she looked up to see him standing beside her. He was weaving unsteadily on his feet.

"Still not getting better." Gúthwyn dabbed at Hammel's forehead with the soaked rag. "Borogor, are you alright?" His movements were subtle, barely noticeable, but constant.

"Come again?"

"You keep rocking back and forth," she explained, yawning as she did so.

Borogor cast her a strange glance. "I am not moving at all."

Gúthwyn blinked, and then realized that he was right.

"Have you gotten any sleep, like I told you?" Borogor asked, crouching down so that his eyes were level with hers.

She shook her head. "When he is better, I will," she answered.

"Gúthwyn, you staying awake for so long will do Hammel more harm than good."

"I said, I will rest when he is better!" she snapped at him, then instantly regretted her words. "I am sorry," she muttered. "I did not mean to—"

"It is fine." Borogor waved away her apology. "It would be best for you to lie down," he said. "I can watch over him for however long you need."

Once again, Gúthwyn shook her head. "Thank you, but I will stay up."

And stay up she did, all through the night. The men had just fallen asleep when Hammel woke up, claiming to be freezing and shivering violently. She hastily put all the blankets she had access to on him, along with Chalibeth's cloak. But still he was cold, trembling uncontrollably no matter how many layers she piled on top of him.

"Hammel?" she murmured at one point, yet though his eyes were wide open he did not respond. Panic was slowly entwining itself within her, aided by the darkness of the tent. The lantern may have been on and burning right next to her, but she could not shake the fear away.

The rest of the night passed in silence. At one point she lay down alongside Hammel, trying to use her body heat to warm him, but it was futile. He tossed and turned, trembling relentlessly, every touch of his skin to her own chill and clammy. It grieved her to see him so uncomfortable, but she did not know what to do. Her helplessness frightened her; what if he fell to this illness, and she was unable to do naught but sit and watch?

Dawn was just breaking when Hammel's eyes opened, settling on hers for a brief instant. She was still lying next to him, and their faces were close together. "Good morning," he whispered, and rolled over and fell back asleep.

* * *

"Just eat a little more," Gúthwyn coaxed Hammel, gesturing towards the meat.

"I am not hungry," he replied, but still reached out and took the food anyway, putting a tiny piece in his mouth.

Gúthwyn sighed in relief. The boy's fever had broken early in the morning, and before noon he was sitting up and conversing, albeit in a subdued manner, with her. Furthermore, he had managed to keep down all of his food.

"How long until the others return?" Hammel wanted to know, and after a moment she shrugged. Despite the small surge of triumph at him returning to full health, Gúthwyn was now utterly exhausted. It had taken several seconds for Hammel's words to make sense in her mind. She would have fallen asleep on the spot, but she did not want the boy to be alone in the tent.

When Borogor, Haiweth, and the other soldiers returned, however, she was going to take the longest nap she had ever taken in her entire life. Now that Hammel was better, she had nothing to worry about—well, nothing was a relative term, but she refused to be troubled by even the smallest thing until she had a good night's rest.

The day dragged on interminably. Gúthwyn was finding it increasingly harder to pay attention to what Hammel was doing or saying, and almost impossible to keep her eyes from closing.

"…here." Hammel's voice suddenly broke into her thought.

"Sorry?" Gúthwyn mumbled vaguely. She wanted to sleep…

"They are here," Hammel repeated, and there were footsteps falling outside. Beating the rhythmic drum of rest…

She found herself struggling to her feet; it escaped her as to why. Men filed in, their faces blurred. Borogor was last, carrying Haiweth in his arms.

"Gúthwyn," he spoke, moving over to her.

"I am going to sleep," she wanted to say, but then Haiweth looked up at her.

"Don't feel good," the girl muttered. "Sick like Hammel."

The ground was suddenly rushing up to meet her. Now Haiweth was ill? Gúthwyn could not stay up for another hour… But the girl needed her…

She tried to sit up, but hands were pushing her down. "No," Borogor's voice filtered in through her ears. His dim outline was before her; Haiweth had been laid upon her pallet.

"Haiweth," she replied, wanting rest so much that it hurt.

"I will take care of her. Now get some sleep."

The words were barely out of Borogor's mouth before her world went black.


	46. Together

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Four:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-Four**

Borogor removed the rag from Haiweth's forehead and went to dip it in water once more, listening to the steady breathing of the others. The child was lucky—the fever was only mild, and already he could feel her temperature returning to normal. Her vomiting had been minimal, which was also a good sign. A day had passed since she fell ill, but already she was on the road to recovery. She had not even gotten the chills.

He sighed, glancing at Gúthwyn as he did so. She was still unconscious, having not woken up since he had returned to the tent with a sick Haiweth in tow. It never ceased to amaze him at how long and hard she could sleep. It was truly abnormal, he thought, placing the rag back on Haiweth.

She stirred weakly, murmuring something that sounded like "mama" before settling down again. The poor child; Gúthwyn had told him of the horrible deaths of their parents, inflicted cruelly by the Uruk-hai who had brought them to Mordor. His heart twisted, thinking of their corpses lying unmarked in the marshlands around the Great River, never to receive a proper burial.

Borogor was about to take a short nap when movement from Gúthwyn's pallet attracted his attention. She had pushed the blanket away from her and was trying to sit up.

"Careful," he cautioned, going to kneel at her side. "Do you feel better now?"

His friend shook her head. Up close, he thought she almost looked delirious. "I think Hammel gave me the fever," she whispered, putting her hand on her head. "Everywhere feels hot."

Borogor touched her forehead. She was right. "Haiweth's did not last long," he said. "Yours probably will not."

Gúthwyn nodded, her eyes slightly unfocused. "Is she alright?"

"Yes," he answered. "Do not worry for them. Do you want something to eat?"

"No," she replied, as he knew she would. "What time is it? Do I need to be somewhere?"

She meant Haldor's tent. "No," Borogor told her gladly, and she exhaled feebly in relief. "Get some rest, Gúthwyn."

"I will try," she said, but she had barely lain her head down on her pillow before she was asleep. Borogor sighed again, standing up and retrieving the bucket, thinking that it would be best to empty it while she had not started vomiting.

When he returned, he wet the rag again and placed it back on Haiweth's head. By morning, the child would be up and about. Her temperature was almost down to normal. _Thank the Valar for that,_ he thought. Too many children fell to disease borne on a foul wind. And if either Hammel or Haiweth perished, he knew that Gúthwyn would be utterly heartbroken.

Towards morning, Borogor moved over to take his friend's temperature. He was not tired, having dozed briefly once every hour or so—something that Gúthwyn had failed to do, which had weakened her and left her susceptible to the fever. When his hand touched her skin, his eyebrows shot up. She was absolutely burning.

Quickly he found another rag and soaked it. Gúthwyn stirred when the cool cloth was laid upon her, but did not wake up. He winced, thinking of what Haldor would say. The Elf had been furious enough upon learning that the children were sick. Elves were never afflicted by these troubles, and his commander was annoyed that Gúthwyn had to remain inside the tent in order to take care of the children.

The light filtering in from the outside was slowly turning grey. He would have to go to the training grounds soon. Haldor might have excused Gúthwyn for a few days, but as Borogor was the one who instructed the troops most of the time, he could not afford to miss a practice. This had left him in a quandary yesterday, as Haiweth had been vomiting; he had ended up leaving the bucket beside her, along with a rag and a canteen of water. Much to his relief, nothing terrible had happened.

It seemed as though he would have to do the same again, yet this time for Gúthwyn. Standing up, Borogor cupped his hands over his mouth. "Get up!" he yelled. "Come on, move!"

Grunts and groans resonated in his ears. Dîrbenn rose immediately to his feet, coming over barefoot to stand beside the second-in-command. "Is the child better?" he questioned.

Borogor nodded. Just now Haiweth was opening her eyes. "She was not hit too hard, luckily. But now Gúthwyn has caught it."

"Haldor will not be happy," Dîrbenn muttered. "And are you not supposed to go to Ithilien in two days?"

"Yes, but she should be better by then." Borogor was sure that his friend could not possibly stay sick longer than Hammel had, especially as her body was far stronger than the boy's.

"She is sweating," Dîrbenn observed, and Borogor glanced back to see that he was right. He bent down and transferred the bucket, rags, and water over to her pallet, then went over to Haiweth.

"Good morning," he greeted her, and the child grinned.

"Better!" she announced.

"Excellent. Now you get to go with your brother to the training grounds, alright?" Hammel sat up at these words, and began pulling on a pair of boots that were too big for him, despite having been handed down by the smallest man Borogor could possibly find.

The children left soon after, Haiweth a little tired and clutching Hammel's hand tightly. Borogor did not like having to send her out in that state, but he knew it would only ignite Haldor's fury if more absences than necessary occurred.

"Gúthwyn," he said quietly, turning back to his friend. She gave a low moan, but did not otherwise respond. Borogor sighed, but there was nothing he could do for the time being. Getting to his feet, he and Dîrbenn exited, ready for another grueling day.

* * *

When Borogor pushed the tent flap open and ducked underneath it, the first thing he noticed was the distinctive smell of vomit that slammed into his nostrils. He had come to recognize the scent easily over the past three years.

"Gúthwyn?" he called, stepping over a discarded helmet and making his way to her. She had managed to prop herself up into a sitting position, but was swaying dazedly. The bucket was about to overflow.

"Borogor," she mumbled back, looking hardly aware of her surroundings.

He cursed under his breath. "Hold on a minute," he told her, and took the bucket outside, passing by the other men as he went. The children were the last ones to file in, Hammel all but dragging Haiweth behind him.

Emptying the vomit, he went back inside, crouching next to Gúthwyn. "How are you feeling?" he asked, setting the bucket down and taking a rag. He began soaking it.

"Horrible," she whispered, closing her eyes. Then her face tightened, and she lunged for the bucket, retching as if there was no tomorrow.

As he had always done, Borogor abandoned his task and held her hair out of the way. She thanked him weakly when she had finished.

"Have you had anything to eat?" he questioned her. Gúthwyn shook her head frantically, her eyes growing wide. In her fevered state, she seemed even more terrified than usual.

Borogor did not have the heart to force her to eat. He would have felt less guilty if the soldiers received something that would have passed for edible in civilized lands, such as bread, but he could fully understand why Gúthwyn despised consuming the disgusting meat. No one had ever told her that it came from recently perished Orcs; even Haldor had not done so, realizing that no amount of blackmailing would have gotten her to eat it afterwards.

"You should get some sleep," he said, but she groaned.

"Nightmares."

He did not reply as he wrung excess water out of a rag. It did not take a wizard to figure out what her nightmares were of.

Holding out the cloth for her to take, he instructed, "Put this on your forehead."

Gúthwyn attempted to reach for it, but her eyes were swimming wildly and she kept missing. At length Borogor moved closer to her, pushing her down onto her back. "Stay down," he ordered when she tried to struggle against him. She slumped, and lay unmoving as he put the rag on her head.

"Borogor…" she murmured, and he bent down to hear her better. "Feel so bad…"

"I know," he replied sympathetically. "But you will recover soon; sooner if you get some rest. How about it?"

She mumbled something unintelligible in response, but closed her eyes all the same. Seconds later she was asleep, her chest rising and falling steadily. Borogor saw the children to bed, then returned to her side. Long after the other men had passed into the world of dreams, he was changing the rags on her forehead, trying to bring her fever down. They left for Ithilien the day after tomorrow; he was praying that, like Haiweth, she would only be ill for twenty-four hours, and then have a full day to recuperate before the trip.

But when night changed into day, and the soldiers were preparing for another draining practice, Gúthwyn's body was still burning. She had woken up once, speaking to him deliriously—she had addressed him as Éomer, a name Borogor did not recognize, and was demanding to know why he had not come for her.

Strands of worry wove into his mind as he stepped onto the training grounds, his thoughts firmly back in the tent with Gúthwyn. When he left she had been tossing and turning violently, which was surprising, as she rarely moved when she slept. Her temperature had not decreased at all.

While the men were running through their archery drills, he debated whether or not to speak with Haldor about it. The Elf would be enraged, no doubt, but Gúthwyn could not possibly be expected to go traipsing into the forest as sick as she was.

"Where is she?" someone growled, and Borogor spun around to see Haldor just a foot behind him. The Elf's blue eyes were blazing.

"Sick," Borogor replied.

"The _children_ were sick," Haldor spat, fingering the knife he always carried with him. Borogor tried to keep his eyes from focusing on the weapon.

"She caught it from Haiweth," he explained instead.

"I suppose she thinks she is going to get out of scouting, then?" Haldor snarled, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Haldor, I do not think she is going to recover in time," Borogor said quietly. "Most fevers are accompanied by chills—"

"Do not take me for a fool. I know what a fever is," Haldor interrupted him.

"My apologies," Borogor replied, inclining his head. "But she has not even gotten the chills yet; she is still struggling with the first phase."

"I will see her," Haldor said, and before Borogor knew what was happening began striding towards the tent. After a moment of surprise, the second-in-command followed after him, figuring that the warriors were too busy to notice the absence of their leaders.

When Haldor stepped inside their tent, Borogor sent a quick prayer up to the Valar that Gúthwyn would be sleeping. Mercifully, it was answered. Her eyes were closed as the Elf stood over her.

"She reeks," Haldor muttered. It was true. Not just Gúthwyn, but the entire room smelt of vomit.

"She has been throwing up for most of the night," Borogor explained, but the Elf ignored him, putting a hand on her forehead. Gúthwyn twitched and moaned, even in her sleep trying to cringe away from him.

Haldor straightened up. "She is going tomorrow," he said shortly, and began to depart from the tent.

Borogor sent one last glance at his friend before jogging to catch up with Haldor. "My lord," he spoke when he was at his commander's side, "she cannot—"

Haldor stopped, grabbing his arm and twisting it. Borogor winced. "Your brother may be dead," the Elf hissed, "but that does not mean that you will not obey my orders. She is going tomorrow, and that is final. Do not make me repeat myself."

He let go and strode away, leaving Borogor to stare after him in resentment.

* * *

"Gúthwyn?" Borogor asked quietly, sitting down next to his friend and watching her stir fretfully. Her eyes blearily opened, then closed and opened again.

"Yes?" she mumbled, pressing her hands over her stomach and looking nauseous. She had drawn the blanket around her thin body.

"Haldor says that you are still to go with us tomorrow," he said quietly, wishing that he did not have to break the news.

Gúthwyn trembled. "Tomorrow?" she croaked. He nodded, and her face turned pale.

The other men were settling into bed all around them. Hammel and Haiweth were already sleeping peacefully next to each other.

"Borogor," Gúthwyn suddenly muttered, wrapping her blanket tighter around herself. "Why is it so cold in here?"

His arms were fine, bare in a sleeveless tunic—she was getting the chills. He got up and went to his own pallet, taking both his blanket and his cloak and bringing them over. Gúthwyn was already beginning to shiver. "Here," he said comfortingly, placing them gently on top of her, still feeling her body shaking through the layers.

She shuddered, curling up into a tiny ball. "Thank you," she whispered faintly.

"Go to sleep now," he told her. "Perhaps when you wake up you will feel better." His tone was hopeful, but he could not have dreaded the dawn anymore.

"Thank you," she said again, and closed her eyes. Cold sweat was running down her face.

Hours later, Borogor was the only one awake. Steady breathing filled the tent, but it was offset by Gúthwyn's rapid inhaling and exhaling. The chills were attacking her body relentlessly, and every inch of it was quivering violently. He was growing increasingly nervous: It did not seem as if she was going to even be able to sit up when it was time to go, never mind walking.

It struck him as surprising that the sickness had afflicted her so. Even though she had not been getting much sleep beforehand, he would have thought her strong enough to resist the fever. Instead, it was harming her more than it had the children. But he was at a complete loss as to how to cure her. He could hear her teeth chattering, the noise loud in the near silence, as she whimpered and rolled over onto her side. Every possible remedy for her he had attempted, with no success.

All but one. Borogor frowned, remembering how Gúthwyn had kept Hammel warm when the boy had the chills. Body heat. Yet he was most reluctant to do the same for her, as with Hammel it had been like a mother and a child—with him, it would be a man and a woman lying together, something that he knew Gúthwyn was terrified of. Thanks to Haldor, she was barely able to tolerate his touch. If she woke up and he was stretched alongside her, their friendship would be ruined. He did not want to risk it.

Gradually midnight came. Gúthwyn was still freezing, and he feared that she would not recover in time. The last chance he had of raising her temperature was firmly in his mind, but just as adamantly his morals argued against it. _Think of what that would mean,_ he reminded himself. _Sleeping with a woman, without her consent. Gúthwyn, no less._

_It as not as if you are going to do what Haldor has done,_ another side of him protested. _You have nothing to lose from trying. She will not wake up; she is the heaviest sleeper you know._

He glanced at Gúthwyn, almost expecting her eyes to be open, glaring at him accusingly for even thinking of such things. However, she was still shivering, only her eyes and nose visible over the blankets. The rest of her body was huddled pitifully underneath the mess of covers.

Borogor sighed. What he was about to do might haunt him for the rest of his life. But slowly, hesitantly, he lifted the blankets and slipped in next to her. She had her back to him, and when he wrapped an arm around her he felt her vibrating against him. It was sweltering hot, yet when he reached over to touch her face it was cold as death. He shuddered at the thought.

For nearly half an hour they lay there, every nerve in Borogor's body yelling at him to leave before it was too late. On the other hand, he was equally afraid of disturbing her with his movements. And he noticed, though the change was so small that at first it was almost imperceptible, that she was gradually uncurling from a tight ball. Nearly an hour later, she was stretched out fully beside him.

_Now I should go,_ he thought. Her temperature felt normal—there was a chance of it going down once more, but experience had taught him that once the chills had been defeated, they rarely came back.

He was just working up the courage to pull away from her when she turned over, so that they were facing each other. Her eyes opened, and Borogor felt his heart stop. He could not believe he had been so foolish. Gúthwyn would surely hate him for what he had done. No matter how he tried to explain or justify his actions, the fact would remain that to his friend, he had seemed to be taking advantage of her.

A thousand thoughts were still running like wildfire through his mind when her eyes closed again. He blinked, and then felt an overwhelming surge of relief as he realized that she was still asleep. Luck had been on his side, but now was the moment to get up in case next time her eyes remained open.

Unexpectedly she reached out, putting one small hand around the back of his neck, and the other on his shoulder. Borogor felt himself twitch nervously as she drew closer to him, utterly unaware of what she was doing. If she woke up at this instant… Her breathing was now even, but his was growing shallower. All he could see was her face, merely inches away from his own.

_This is wrong,_ he thought as she moved even closer to him. She had no idea what was happening. Neither did he, for that matter. He was torn between wanting, needing to get out of this situation and a horrible fear that if he shifted, she would wake up and see his face all but pressed against hers.

Gúthwyn gave a small shudder, and pulled herself nearer, tilting her head back slightly as she did so. They were so close that her face was a blur—all except her mouth, which, he realized with a frantic start, would touch his if he so much as breathed. Immediately he held his breath, trying to move away from her, but her grip on him was suddenly vise-like. It was then that she exhaled.

Her lips brushed against his, no more than a child's breath upon his face, but then she deepened the touch, leaning into him and sliding her hands up to run through his hair. Borogor stiffened in shock; he wondered, crestfallen, how far her mind had gone, and if she thought he was Haldor. She obviously did not know what was going on. It was the first time a woman had done this to him. He was well aware that most of the soldiers, like Lumren, would have pressed their advantage as far as it went, but he would not do that.

Her hands were now cupping his face, and he felt her tongue gently pushing at his lips. For a moment that he instantly regretted, all self-restraint abandoned him, and he opened his mouth to her without even thinking. A second later, as their tongues met, he realized that he was kissing the very woman he had promised himself to protect. Gúthwyn.

Hastily he pulled away from her, feeling that even if he woke her up in the process, he had to stop this. "Gúthwyn," he whispered, and she sighed in response as if nothing had happened. Borogor suddenly found himself entranced by the sight of her lips; a burning, foreign desire to continue the kiss spread throughout him. It frightened him to have so little control over his emotions.

Luckily for him, she chose that moment to turn back over, settling against him comfortably. As his fingers made their way into her hair, lightly running through it, he could not help but notice that their bodies fit perfectly together.

_I love her,_ he thought simply. The revelation did not come as a shock—he supposed he had known it all along, yet just had not admitted it to himself. _I love her,_ he repeated, hearing the sentence in his mind over and over again, savoring its sound. _I love her, and I want to marry her._

The last prospect was new, but her illness had shown him just how much he cared for her. He did not know if she returned his feelings—and could not ask her to, after all Haldor had done—but he made up his mind that he would try. With an almost abnormal calm, he decided to speak with her on their trip to Ithilien, where they would be far away from the eyes and ears of his commander.

His heart and mind set, Borogor had nothing left to do but hold Gúthwyn, waiting for the morning. If a stranger had come into the tent and glanced down at them, lying together next to the children, he would have thought them a family.


	47. A Fate Less Than Death

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Five:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Aegnor, a minor character appearing later, is a name taken from the Noldorin son of Finarfin. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-Five**

Gúthwyn's eyes opened.

_Where am I?_ she thought, for a moment completely bewildered. The last thing she remembered was Haiweth being brought back, sick, into the tent… Then everything was a confusing, hot blur. She could have sworn that she had seen Borogor's face at one point, but she was at a loss as to when.

Her surroundings became clearer as she blinked rapidly. A canvas ceiling was directly over her; Hammel and Haiweth were to her right, pulling on their shoes in silence. She frowned, trying to push herself up. Was it time to go already?

"Gúthwyn?" Borogor's voice met her ears, and she glanced up to see him standing above her.

"What happened?" she wanted to know, finally managing to prop herself into a sitting position.

"You had a fever," he replied, kneeling next to her. "How are you feeling now?"

She breathed in and out. Her head felt miraculously clear. "Much better," she replied, and a smile came to his face.

"Good," he said softly. She studied him. He seemed different—happy was the word she kept coming up with, but it was something else that she could not quite place.

"Borogor, the other men are arriving!" Dîrbenn called, ducking inside the tent.

Borogor nodded, and Gúthwyn decided to ask him about his change later. Her friend got to his feet, offering her his hand as he did so.

"Thank you," she whispered, taking it and allowing him to pull her up. "What is going on?" Her clothes were all rumpled and she was still rubbing the sleep out of her eyes.

"We are moving out to Ithilien," he responded, and she remembered that a trip had been scheduled for… Well, it must have been for today.

Yawning, Gúthwyn listened as Borogor said, "I went out this morning and found some gear for you. I did not think that you would wake up in time."

"Are we leaving now?" she asked, glancing at the children. They were watching her quietly.

"In about five minutes," Borogor replied. "I will see you out there."

"Alright," she said, and he smiled at her before crossing the tent to Dîrbenn.

Gúthwyn followed him with her eyes for a few seconds, wondering what had made him so lighthearted. Dîrbenn saw her looking at them and she turned back to the children, not wanting to seem as though she was eavesdropping.

"You two behave while I am away, understand?" she said, picking up Haiweth and hugging her tightly. Haiweth squirmed, being at that rebellious age where affection was forbidden. Gúthwyn put her back on the ground, ruffling her hair, then did the same to Hammel. His face was solemn, and when she bent down to give him a swift hug his expression did not change.

She said goodbye to both of them, then made her way over to Borogor and Dîrbenn. They broke off their conversation when she arrived, and Dîrbenn bid the two of them farewell. "Return safe," he said.

Together they left the tent, joining up with the dozen or so soldiers that had been selected to go on the scouting trips. Borogor had not chosen them; she had asked him, once, and he had told her that Haldor always made the final decisions. In order to ensure that none of them would try to escape once out of Mordor, only those who had family members within the camp were used for the job. If they did not return to Udûn, their relatives would be killed. It was a horrible concept, but it worked: No one had disappeared into the wild forests of Ithilien.

They were men from all around the camp. Some of them were Easterlings, and a few were Haradrim from the south, who spoke in a strange tongue with each other. The rest of them had been captured, like her and Borogor, forced to fight for the massive army of the Dark Lord. She had never memorized most their names, as most of the trip was undertaken in silence. Yet Borogor knew all of them, as well as their histories; he was the type of person who did not treat those of lesser ranking as inferiors. With the exception of the Easterlings, this quality had won him open admiration and respect from the majority of the camp.

"Is everyone ready?" Borogor asked then, and there was a dull murmur of assent. One of the Haradrim, standing next to Gúthwyn, said:

"Borogor, the kid wants your attention."

Both the second-in-command and Gúthwyn turned around to see Hammel standing there. The boy approached Borogor, who crouched down so that their faces were level.

"Goodbye," Hammel spoke quietly. "I will miss you."

"I will miss you as well," Borogor replied seriously, but Gúthwyn was uneasy, looking at Hammel's somber gaze. "Take care of your sister, will you? We shall see each other again in about a week."

The boy nodded. After giving one last, forlorn wave to all of them, he retreated back into the tent. Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed. She thought there was something more to Hammel's farewell, but it was beyond her to figure out what. It seemed that another mystery had been added to the day's count.

* * *

The forest was still, peaceful in the early morning, the sweet smell of fir and cedar trees a welcome relief from the harsh, acrid scent of Mordor. Gúthwyn, Borogor, and the other men were passing through the woods silently, their feet on the old road but their eyes darting amongst the trees on either side. Scouting was a dangerous job; in a territory whose ownership was dubious, even more so. Scores of troops flocking to Sauron generally used this way to transport their armies to the Black Land, but ever so often large numbers of them did not show up and were never heard from again.

The source of these disappearances was almost certainly the Rangers, whom Gúthwyn had never seen but knew something about. None of them were actually from Ithilien, as the land had been emptied when Sauron's influence spread further from Mordor. Instead, they were from other areas of Gondor. No one knew where they took refuge, but it was said that they were always aware of who was passing through their land.

For years, Borogor had been leading expeditions into the forest, sometimes to act as a guard for arriving troops, and other times in the hopes of keeping tabs on the Rangers locations. The Gondorians did not reveal themselves often—if they did, it was to attack quickly and then retreat. Because of this, Borogor guessed that their numbers were small, but no one had a clear idea of how many there actually were.

Gúthwyn, personally, did not care if there were ten or ten thousand of them, just as long as they did not set an ambush for the group she was traveling in. At times the forest seemed to be pressing in on them, hoping to suffocate them, as if it knew that they came from a foul land. She always walked close to Borogor, and laid her pallet near his at night—his presence made her feel safe, even if unfriendly Rangers were surrounding her.

Currently, they had been in the forest for almost two days. It had taken them a little over a day to traverse the distance between the Black Gate and the edge of the wood. Borogor preferred to keep his men moving in daylight, as it was easier to see their surroundings and the sight of sun would uplift their spirits. Indeed, if it were not for the danger riding upon these excursions, Gúthwyn often felt as though she could burst out into song. It was not every day that she placed almost seventeen leagues between her and Haldor, and she was determined to enjoy herself as much as was possible.

They had been going at a slow pace, because every so often Borogor sent one or two men out into the forest to look for trails. The exercise was futile, as they only went a hundred yards or so in, and the tangled forest hid what tracks the Rangers had forgotten to cover, but the second-in-command still held to the practice.

A sudden movement in the trees attracted her attention; even though a startled glance revealed it to be a bird taking flight, Gúthwyn's muscled tensed and her grip on her sword tightened. The blade was still sheathed, dangling from her left side, but she was ready to pull it out at any moment. A watchful silence had hung over the forest all day, and she could tell from the terse motions of the other men that they had noticed it as well.

Unexpectedly, Borogor stopped. "Did you hear that?" he whispered to her as the rest of the troop halted.

Gúthwyn had not, and scanning the trees she could not see any of the Rangers' outlines. "No," she replied, but all the same she clutched the handle of her sword harder.

A few birds twittered to each other, but otherwise all was quiet. The very trees seemed still with anticipation. Borogor's eyes were narrowed, his head cocked to the side, listening for the elusive noise.

Suddenly an arrow shot from the woods, passing less than an inch from Borogor's skull and embedding itself in a cypress tree. Gúthwyn barely had time to blink before a score of cloaked men poured out of the forest from all directions, swords drawn and gleaming in the pale sunlight.

The air was full of cries as the Mordor troop drew out their weapons. Some pulled out their bows, shooting faster than she could see into the attacking Ithilien host. One of the Rangers toppled over, and did not get up.

It was the first time Gúthwyn had seen close combat, and it filled her with an adrenaline rush such as she had never experienced before. It was part terror that caused her to unsheathe her sword, yet when one of the Rangers came towards her she actually felt excitement. Here was her chance to prove her worth.  
However, as her blade met his with a ringing clash of metal on metal, she realized that, though the Rangers' numbers far overwhelmed those of Mordor, none of the men from the Black Land had perished. It seemed as though the force from Ithilien was merely trying to gauge their opponents; the man she was fighting with, she soon saw, had no intention of killing her.

This angered Gúthwyn, and she launched into a series of furious attacks. The Ranger was forced back, what little she could see of his face looking surprised and even a little worried. Not once did she relent on him. He was still parrying her strikes efficiently, but that would soon change.

Keeping him busy with a hit aimed at his shoulder, she moved in close enough to send a shattering kick to his knee. The Ranger gasped in pain, falling to the ground. He tried to get up, but swiftly she placed the sword on his throat. A small drop of blood formed.

She breathed heavily, wondering what to do. Out of the corners of her eyes, she could see most of the group from Ithilien retreating into the woods. The men of Mordor were either fighting their assailants off or nursing small injuries. Borogor was one of the former. He was dueling with what was clearly the leader of the Rangers, neither of them gaining the upper hand.

Gúthwyn gazed back at the man before her, who stared just as solidly back. It would take only a single stroke to end his life; a single stroke, and his head would be at her feet. She reached out and pulled off his hood, having a morbid curiosity to look upon her victim's face. What she saw was typical of any Gondorian: Slightly curly, dark hair, with brown eyes. She wondered if he had any family.

Just then a shout echoed throughout the forest. Keeping her sword at the Ranger's throat, Gúthwyn craned her neck as far as she dared—just in time to see Borogor fall to the ground, landing with a groan on his back. The Ithilien captain stood above him, his sword drawn and dripping with blood.

Abandoning the Ranger at her mercy, Gúthwyn began sprinting frantically towards her friend, with only one thought in her mind: To kill the man who had harmed him, regardless of the cost.

"My lord!" a voice called when she was only twenty feet away from her target. Borogor's attacker whirled around. His hood fell off in the process; light-colored eyes saw her running towards him, her sword drawn and ready to attack. A gloved hand was raised, and before she knew what she was doing she halted.

Yet the captain's gaze had shifted to something behind her. She turned, and saw the Ranger she had just had at sword point lowering his bow. An arrow was still nocked, but the tip was now facing the ground. For some reason, the man who had disarmed Borogor had spared her life.

Gúthwyn was puzzled, but at that moment the remainder of the Ithilien guard dispersed into the wood. The captain passed away, as a fleeting dream that danced on the tip of her memory.

"Borogor!" she exclaimed, dropping her sword and running over to him. Her friend's eyes were open, but he was clutching at his right arm tightly.

The other men were crowding behind her, muttering shakily at the sight of their leader on the ground.

"Fine," he grunted, but when he pulled his hand away it was covered in blood. There was a deep gash in his arm.

"No, you are not!" she retorted, feeling the beginnings of panic overcoming her. The wound itself was not serious, but if he bled too much…

Borogor pressed his hand back over his arm, and struggled to get to his feet. She bent down and helped pull him up, aided by one of the Haradrim.

"Thank you," he said, panting slightly. His worried eyes surveyed the troops. Other than the Ranger that had been shot, the path was miraculously free of bodies. "No one dead…" he murmured, and his frown deepened. "How many wounded?"

A few of the men grunted, but the worst injury was a nosebleed. Borogor seemed even more disturbed.

"Borogor," Gúthwyn said, glancing pointedly back at him, "_you_ are wounded."

He looked down at her anxious face, and nodded. "We shall rest here for the night," he declared. The sun was already fading from the sky, and their shadows were slowly disintegrating along with it. "They will not come back."

The men separated to retrieve their things, but Gúthwyn was not so confident. "How do you know that we are safe?" she asked concernedly.

Borogor sat back down, leaning against a tree and groaning. "None of us are dead," he responded. "They had some other purpose in mind; whatever it was, I think they accomplished it. We do not have to fear another attack."

He sounded sure of his words, yet her eyes could not help flickering to the now menacing trees.

"Do not worry," Borogor said, and she looked back at him.

"Let me see your arm," she replied, and he shook his head.

"It is fine; I can fix it myself." He winced as he prodded the cut.

"Borogor!" she cried, for some reason feeling almost hysterical at the sight of him injured. He had always been the one healing her. To see him in need of aid was something frighteningly new. "Stop it!"

He glanced up at her, opening his mouth; then he stopped at the sight of her face. "Alright," he conceded softly. "Have you ever sewn anyone up before?"

"Is it that bad?" Gúthwyn felt herself paling.

He nodded.

"Well… no," she admitted, but he did not roll his eyes.

"I have some thread and a needle in my bag," he told her instead, and she went to get it. The other men were rolling out their pallets, most taking shelter under the trees. They were clearly untroubled about a possible attack, if Borogor was not.

She brought the entire bag with her, sitting cross-legged at his side and emptying its contents. Clothes, bandages, food, water, a spare dagger… Then she saw them.

"I was never very good at sewing," she confessed apologetically, taking the surprisingly hooked needle, and he smiled.

"Somehow, I did not think so." His reply was muffled as he pulled his tunic over his head, and for a moment Gúthwyn blushed. She had seen him shirtless before, and he obviously did not care that she had, but it was still awkward.

He turned his arm so that she could see the wound, and she cringed. "How did he get you?" she questioned, abandoning the needle and picking up a rag instead. She found it hard to believe that anyone could be his better in sword fighting.

"I am getting too old," he joked, then inhaled sharply as she poured some water on his wound and started cleaning.

"How old are you?" Gúthwyn wondered, hoping the question was not too intrusive.

"Twenty-five," Borogor replied as she wiped some more blood away. Twenty-five. That was seven years older than her.

"Cobryn would be your age, then," she commented, keeping the rag on his arm and reaching for the needle and thread.

"Really?" Borogor had heard of her fellow slaves in Isengard, but painful memories of Chalibeth had restricted her from saying much.

Gúthwyn nodded. "Do you… just want me to… sew the cut up?" she asked, a little bewildered.

"It is the same thing as sewing two pieces of fabric together," he said, "only your hands will get bloody."

She was not sure if he spoke in jest or seriousness, but decided to take it as the latter. Plumes of nervousness were rising within her, and her fingers shook as she put the thread through the needle and tied a knot at the end. All the while, she was praying that she would not mess this up and make things worse.

He watched calmly as she took hold of his arm, putting it on her lap and holding the needle inches away from the skin. "A-are you sure about this?"

Borogor nodded, but her hand was wavering uncontrollably. "Hold it," he said, and she jumped slightly. "Relax. Take deep breaths. This is not going to hurt me. You will do fine."

"You are the one who is supposed to be nervous," she muttered weakly, rubbing a thin layer of sweat from her face with the back of her hand. "After all, it is your body I am… _sewing _up. This is mad!" Then she sighed. "Sorry, I should be working…" She dabbed at the blood that had spilled out of his arm.

"Are you ready?" he asked her, and she shook her head.

"Absolutely not." The needle lowered onto his skin, and with a wince from her it pierced the flesh. Before she could vomit, she began sewing up the wound, pausing every now and then to wipe the excess blood from his arm. Its hooked shape made the job easier, yet she still felt nauseous.

"How are you holding up?" Borogor inquired after about five minutes, not seeming the least bit concerned about his wound.

"I think I might throw up all over you," she replied shakily. He tilted his head back and laughed softly.

"You are doing well," he said. "Look, you are already halfway done."

He was right. A row of black, uneven stitches was running up his arm. As Gúthwyn finished, she frowned. Now that the blood had been cleaned away, she could see a long, painful-looking scar that extended the entire length of the limb. It only seemed half healed.

"How did you get that?" she asked, but when his somber eyes met hers she knew the answer before he said it.

"I did not become his second-in-command without bleeding for the job," he replied wryly. "Literally."

Gúthwyn's eyes were drawn to the mark as she tied the last knot in the thread. "Did it hurt?"

"Like nothing else." Borogor's voice was reminiscent. "At that point, of course, I did not know that I was going to be where I am now. Up until five years ago, it was an older man named Aegnor."

"How did the job come to you?" she asked quietly.

Borogor's voice hardened. "Haldor decided that Aegnor was too old. He disposed of him. I was Aegnor's closest friend—he had taught me everything that I know, everything that I taught you. And… here I am."

She looked up at him in horror. "How old was Aegnor?"

Borogor shrugged. "Perhaps around forty."

"But that means…" Gúthwyn felt the needle slipping out of her hand, as well as her safety line.

"Fifteen years is a long time, Gúthwyn, even if I manage to survive until then," Borogor told her kindly.

Tears were brimming in her eyes; she wiped them away angrily and fearfully. "It is not long enough!" she burst out. "You are supposed to have children at that age! A wife to love and care for! And yet you look forward to death! Why are you letting him do this to you?"

He leaned forward, opening his mouth, but she thought that if she heard anymore, she would start sobbing. "Excuse me," she said shakily, and got to her feet.

"Gúthwyn," he began, but she turned from him, stumbling across the path and leaning against a tree. She folded her arms protectively across herself as she stared unseeingly into the forest. Her eyes were burning with unshed tears. Once more, Haldor was destroying her. She could not imagine life without Borogor; she was so dependent on him, emotionally and sometimes physically, that the very prospect was terrifying.

A hand was placed on her shoulder. "Gúthwyn," Borogor repeated, gently turning her around. She gazed up at him, feeling herself trembling. He had pulled his shirt back on. "I have come to terms with my fate," he said, and his warm brown eyes held hers firmly. "I will not shy from it; indeed, I will consider myself lucky to have lived that long."

"You do not understand," she replied, angry at him for being so uncaring about his life. If it was so important to her, then how could he throw it away so easily?

"Of course I understand," he retorted. "Do you know what Beregil wanted to be when he grew up?"

She shook her head.

"He wanted to be a poet, not a soldier! I remember when we were little, instead of wrestling with the boys he would sit to the side and just write. Our parents gave him a small, blank book and by the time he was eight, he had filled all of it. He used to get teased horribly by the other boys, but he kept writing. Every day. And he was good at it. Then we come here, where there is not so much as a quill in sight, and he is made to train to kill people. Do you think that is a fate less than death?"

Once again, Gúthwyn had to blink away the tears. "What did you want to be?" she managed.

He laughed grimly. "I wanted to be the captain of an army," he replied. "In a strange, twisted way, I have gotten what I wished for."

Suddenly Gúthwyn stepped forward and flung her arms around him. Had Haldor not forbidden her to cry, if crying was not weak, she would have been sobbing hysterically. "Borogor," she whispered as he stiffened in surprise. An instant later, she felt his arms wrap hesitantly about her. "Why do things have to change?"

"Some change is good," he murmured, and she clung to him even tighter.

"I do not want you to die!" Her voice was so quiet and unsteady that he had to lean closer to hear it. "He has taken everything from me, everything! Why should he take you, too?"

"Gúthwyn, I am not going to just leave you," Borogor replied firmly. "We will both know, when the time comes."

His words did not comfort her so much as the tone in which he said them. "Alright," she said, searching his eyes for something—what, she did not know. Yet when he nodded, she pulled away. The sky was turning darker by the minute.

"I think it is time to turn in," Borogor spoke, and looking over at the other men she saw that most of them were asleep. A couple of them were glancing over at her and Borogor curiously.

The two friends moved back under the cover of the trees, nearer to the rest of the soldiers. Gúthwyn laid her pallet beside Borogor's, closer than usual: The news of his death, though far in the future, had shaken her, and a childish part of her was afraid that he would disappear right then and there.

Ten minutes later, it was so dark that she could just see Borogor's face. His eyes were closed, but she knew that he was not yet asleep. He was resting comfortably on his stomach, with one hand extending from underneath the blanket. She reached out for it, placing her own gently upon the tough skin.

His eyes opened, and he glanced at her. "Do you mind?" she whispered.

"No," he replied; a soft smile was on his face.

"Goodnight, Borogor," Gúthwyn said as she closed her eyes. A peaceful breeze was blowing pleasantly around them.

"Goodnight," she heard him murmuring, and then everything faded to a welcoming darkness.

* * *

The Ranger captain was perfectly still, looking upon the camp of sleeping men. Not a sigh did he utter, though he certainly felt like doing so. It was much easier to attack the enemy when they were hideous Orcs, or abrasive servants of the Enemy trampling carelessly through the woods. However, these men were clearly just scouting; he had watched the same troop countless times.

On top of everything, they now had a woman with them. He had never caught her name, and he supposed it did not matter. She was close with the leader. They were always speaking with each other—brother and sister, most likely. Right now, the two of them were sleeping side by side, holding hands.

His heart felt burdened by what he had to do, but he knew his duty and would not back down from it. Yet when he disappeared from the pathway, and returned to where his own men were encamped, he went to his second-in-command. Leaning close, he whispered, "Not her."

The man glanced up at him. "And the—"

"Yes."


	48. The One True Arrow

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Six:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-Six**

The sun was beginning its downward path, casting a warm golden light on the trees that filtered gently onto the road. Gúthwyn felt unusually wholesome and happy as she and Borogor moved along it, followed closely by the other men. She knew this would not last; they were heading back to the Black Land tomorrow. Yet right now she was in higher spirits than she had been in for a long time.

"We shall be stopping soon," Borogor said to her quietly as they passed a stream on their right. It tinkled merrily away as it fell behind them. "We have made better progress than I thought we would."

"Does that mean we get more sleep?" Gúthwyn asked, brightening at the idea.

Borogor laughed. "Yes," he replied. "I knew you would appreciate that."

"You were right." Gúthwyn's smile became larger. She could hardly believe that she was so happy. It seemed almost too good to last.

For another hour they marched down the path. There was a clearing about a mile ahead that Borogor always stopped his troops at: This meant that the total amount of time they were gone from Mordor would only be a week. Anything longer, and Haldor might suspect desertion.

When they arrived at the clearing, the sky was just starting to become colored. Gúthwyn looked up into the oranges, reds, and golds, relishing the rare chance to see a sky that was not tainted with ash and dust. The still air carried the sweet smell of the forthcoming evening on it, and already she was looking forward to a peaceful night's sleep.

"Alright, everyone," Borogor spoke, pulling her out of her thoughts. The other men were assembled before him. "We are heading back to Mordor tomorrow—tonight, however, we shall rest."

Relieved, tight smiles broke out on their faces. Although a relief from the harsh Black Land was welcome, the forest was tense with danger and the chance of attack at any moment. Without further speech the troop moved off the road and underneath the shelter of some overhanging trees, spreading their pallets on the ground and settling down on them.

"Gúthwyn," Borogor muttered as she was about to follow suit. She glanced over at him. "May I speak to you in private?"

She nodded, wondering what he had in mind. "Where do you want to go?"

Borogor gestured to a large tree, several yards away from the other men. Gúthwyn followed him to it, a little intrigued as to what he did not want to say in front of everyone.

Yet when they were at the tree, he seemed reluctant to start speaking. He sighed, shifting backwards and forwards, and immediately Gúthwyn knew that whatever he was about to tell her, it would be of great importance.

At last he spoke. "Gúthwyn," he began, and then stopped. She looked at him quizzically. Over his shoulder, the trees were rustling. "Gúthwyn, I…"

"Are you alright?" she asked concernedly. Borogor seemed rather pale, and his hands were clenching and unclenching into fists: Both a nervous and angry habit. Yet she could not detect any sign of rage on him.

"Yes, I am fine," he replied, and then he took her hands. She let him, feeling strangely relaxed as his fingers absent-mindedly massaged her own. All around them the trees were swaying gently.

"Gúthwyn, I was wondering—"

"My lord, the forest!"

Both Borogor and Gúthwyn whirled around to see one of the Haradrim on his feet, pointing into the trees—which, Gúthwyn realized too late, were moving in the non-existent wind…

Suddenly, an arrow shot out of the woods. Before anyone could do anything, it struck the man of Harad square in the forehead, killing him instantly. His body fell to the ground, and with it came an outbreak of chaos. Rangers poured from the trees, bearing down upon the Mordor men before they had a chance to retrieve their weapons. Two more were slaughtered outright.

Gúthwyn and Borogor ducked under the flying arrows and ran for their gear. Borogor pulled out his bow, and more arrows were added to the fray. Some of the Rangers were struck, and dropped motionless to the ground. Gúthwyn withdrew her bow, as well, but none of hers hit the targets. More men were being killed by arrows than with swords, and Gúthwyn understood with a sickened feeling in her stomach that the Rangers were distracting them, so that those still in the forest would have a clear shot.

Borogor was aware of this, as well—his bow was aimed into the trees, shooting rapidly at the shadows that were beginning to emerge. She and the other men followed suit, but it was futile. The Rangers were overwhelming them, and one by one those from Mordor fell. Gúthwyn received a shock when the young man next to her, whose name might have been Gwandîr, was stopped in his tracks when an arrow slammed into his eye. Aghast, she saw the tip sticking out of the other end of his head as he slid onto the foliage.

There were only five of them left. Gúthwyn was growing panicked as the Rangers showed no intention of letting up or taking prisoners. She was not afraid to die, but she was terrified of what Haldor would do to the children when she did not return. This fueled her like nothing else: She dove headlong into the battle, wielding her sword with such ruthless efficiency that two of the Rangers were slaughtered before they even knew that she was upon them.

Now there were three of them, Borogor thankfully among them, and the host of Rangers did not look as though it were diminishing in the slightest. Gúthwyn killed another, driving her sword into his stomach with immense satisfaction. He screamed in agony as his life was ended, and she repressed all guilt by remembering the children. Blood was covering her hands as she changed from the sword to the bow, abandoning the blade in favor of shooting into the trees.

Some of the Rangers were retreating back into the woods, but a duel between one and the last remaining Easterling was still going on. As she hefted up her bow, the Easterling lost. His head was knocked clean away from his body, and he collapsed. Gúthwyn swallowed hard, and looked over at Borogor.

"Get out of here!" he roared at her, gesturing wildly with his arms. The Rangers were advancing again, stepping out of the trees and coming towards them. There was no hope of escape.

"No!" she screamed back. Running away, and leaving Borogor to the mercy of the Rangers, was the last thing she would do. Turning towards the woods, her eyes fell on the captain. He was standing next to his second-in-command, watching, and she felt her blood boiling. If she was to die, then she might as well do so with honor. She would kill the man who had harmed Borogor, just as he deserved.

Faster than she could blink, she strung up the bow, aiming it determinedly at the target. Her eyes narrowed in a furious concentration; a split second later, the arrow flew out of the bow. Time seemed to hang in balance as it drifted towards the captain. She knew, without a doubt, that this was the one true shot she had ever made.

And then the second-in-command was leaping in front of the captain, his eyes wide as the arrow pierced his skull. Gúthwyn, along with everyone else in the clearing, stared horror-struck as he sank to the ground, landing in a crumpled heap at the captain's feet.

"Get out of here!" she heard Borogor shouting again, but it was beyond running at this point. The captain's shocked gaze was fixed on her, and she found herself pinned helplessly to where she stood as he raised his bow. His forehead creased as he bent the bow, and still she stood there numbly. _I am going to die,_ she thought calmly. The entire scene was surreal.

The whistling sound of the captain's arrow resounded in the deathly quiet air. Gúthwyn felt her insides turn to lead as it flew, not towards her, but to Borogor. Borogor, who had yelled at her to run and save herself. Borogor, who had trained her how to use a sword with ruthless precision. Borogor, who had healed her body and mind time and time again, asking only for her trust in return. Borogor, who now turned as if in a dream to face the arrow, whose mouth opened in a small "o" as it pierced him square in the chest.

He was falling forever, the bow slipping softly out of his hands, time and space suspended as his body hovered over the ground. And then he was lying peacefully upon the path, his eyes closed as if in sleep, but like the passing of his brother there would be no awakening.

Gúthwyn's ears were filled with screams, reverberating in her head as she ran to him, her bow clattering uselessly to the foliage. The shrieks were sounding over and over again; she realized that it was her own high-pitched voice, ringing wretchedly throughout the clearing.

"Borogor!" she gasped as she came to him, and she dropped to her knees, frantically reaching for his wrists. She pressed them as tightly as she could, feeling her heart shattering as though it, too, had been hit by the captain's arrow. There was no pulse.

Her breath caught in her throat, and the world began fading. All that was there was Borogor—she touched his face, gently, thinking that this was some cruel joke, that he would wake up in a minute and help her slaughter the rest of the men, and… Her fingers moved over his eyelids, which were utterly still, and something disappeared from her.

"Borogor," she whispered over and over again, pulling him up to wrap her arms around him, rocking the body back and forth. "Borogor…"

He did not respond to her, and that more than anything convinced her that her friend was truly dead. Yet the tears did not come—even if she had the energy to cry, for she was so tired and dazed all of a sudden, such weakness was against Haldor's rules—and instead she held him even closer. A numbness was falling over her.

"Get up."

The voice echoed harshly against her ears, and she trembled. _I will join you soon,_ she told Borogor silently, and ran her fingers through his hair one last time.

"Get up."

This time she obeyed, getting shakily to her feet. Before her was the captain. He was clearly a Gondorian, just as Borogor was—had—been. Of green and brown hues were his clothes, the better to tread unseen in the forest. A cloak was upon him, yet he had lowered the hood to reveal brown locks reaching to his shoulders, and keen blue eyes that were staring at her curiously.

"You killed him," she said, unable to think of anything else. She glanced down at Borogor again.

"And how many of my men lie dead because of you?" the captain returned, his voice stern. She looked at him, not having a retort, just standing there dumbly with eyes that kept darting to the man on the ground.

There were men all around her, and some of them were shifting uncomfortably. But the captain did not move a muscle as he watched her. "What is your name?" he asked her.

Gúthwyn stared at him, not understanding what he meant, only able to see and hear and smell and taste and breathe Borogor. _Borogor._

"I said, what is your name?" the captain repeated.

She managed to say something. "I… I-I… You…" Once more, she looked down at Borogor.

"What was his name?" Now the captain's tone was kinder.

"Borogor," Gúthwyn said quietly, and the name quivered in the air. She lifted her head to gaze upon the captain; this time, her voice was steady. "Kill me now, if it is your will. Do not keep me alive to grieve and waste away."

"I shall not," the captain replied. "War ever seeks to make savages out of us all, but a woman or child is not to suffer at my hands."

His words were eloquent, and his speech fair sounding, but she did not want his pity. "You are a fool, then," she murmured, not having the heart to inject anger or even bitterness into her accusation.

"Was he your brother?" the captain wanted to know, and she shook her head slowly.

"No, he…" Words were failing her, but there was something she had to do. She had to ensure that Borogor would be buried. And so, hesitantly, she spoke to the captain. "My lord, will you… will you bury him?"

He was silent, and out of miserable desperation Gúthwyn sunk to her knees. Crawling forward to the Ranger's booted feet, she looked up at him beseechingly. "Please, my lord, do not let him rot where he lies!" she cried, not caring at all how much she humiliated herself. Haldor had to force her to submit in this way to him, but for Borogor she would do anything. "Please, I am begging you! I will give you whatever it is you could want from me!"

Some of the men muttered at the last sentence, but she ignored them. Years of humble slavery aided her as she assumed the position of appealing, falling into it effortlessly. Her head was bowed subserviently, her hands clasped together. "My lord, please… please bury him. He was a good man… He was taken from Gondor, my lord, please have some pity!"

A gloved finger was placed under her chin, tilting it up so that she was looking directly into the eyes of the captain. He had crouched down in front of her; Gúthwyn trembled at such close proximity to Borogor's killer.

"You move me," the captain said quietly, "such as few have before. I see now that his death has cast you into a great despair—no tears do you cry, yet your grief seems beyond them. I will honor your request."

She stared at him, astonished, hardly daring to believe what she was hearing. All around them, the men were stirring. One of them spoke up.

"But, my lord Faramir—"

The captain stood up, taking Gúthwyn by the arm as he did so and setting her on her feet as well. "My decision is final," he spoke. "I have given her my word; I will keep it."

Still utterly dazed, Gúthwyn bowed as low as she was able to without falling over. "Thank you, my lord," she whispered as she straightened. "I-I… cannot thank you enough…"

"What are you going to do now?" he questioned her, and she shook her head, unable to get the words out. "Will you not come with us? We can provide you shelter, for a time, and then escort you to wherever you want upon the boundaries of Ithilien. And you can bury your friend, alone, if it pleases you."

"No," Gúthwyn replied, though she did not want to leave Borogor in the hands of these strange men. "I-I cannot."

"No?" Faramir echoed, looking shocked. "You would rather return to the Black Land?"

Gúthwyn gulped, knowing that she was surrendering all chance of freedom, but equally aware of what Hammel and Haiweth's fates would be otherwise. "I cannot," she said once more. "I have… l-loved ones there, who would suffer…"

Faramir's eyebrows raised, but he inclined his head. "If this is the path that you desire to take," he began, "then return to the Dark Lord. But do not come back here with another scouting troop. You will find, if you do, that I will be far less accommodating."

She nodded, feeling the numbness wrapping itself tightly around her. "Thank you, my lord," she said, thinking that she was supposed to add something, but suddenly her eyes fell on Borogor.

A wave of horrible, crushing despair crashed upon her. She sunk to her knees, putting her arms around him for the last time. Shaking, she placed a soft kiss on his forehead, and then another on his lips. A shudder wracked her body as she felt his lifeless flesh pressed against hers.

"Farewell, Borogor, my friend," she choked out, and for a moment she swayed faintly. Then, before she could lose the nerve, she kissed him once more on the top of his head and let him slip through her hands. He sank back to the ground, and she stood up. A circle of Rangers was around her, all of them awkwardly trying to keep their eyes away from her.

She passed out of the ring, moving towards the bag she had left by the trees. Borogor's was lying next to it; picking both of them up, she tenderly placed her friend's cloak in his pack. Unwilling to leave, she took a long look around the clearing. Her eyes fell on the tree that Borogor had last spoken to her, and such misery assaulted her that she nearly crumbled under its weight. She had never found out what he was going to say.

At length Gúthwyn began walking back to the Rangers, feeling as if this was all a terrible dream. Through a gap in the men, she could see Borogor's limp form, still at the feet of Faramir. The captain looked at her, for an instant freezing her to the ground.

And then she was running, running away from it all, the forest racing past her as she plunged down the path. _Borogor…_ she thought, and her feet slapped at the path harder. The Rangers were fading behind her, along with his body, neither to be seen again. _Dead._


	49. Brown and Gold

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Seven:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-Seven**

The Black Gate was before her—stark, imposing, utterly impregnable. Gúthwyn was brought to a halt, tripping wearily as she did so. To fall to her knees would be so easy… Yet she had to tell him.

_Dead,_ she thought, as one of the Orkish sentinels spotted her. She was supposed to give a password. The hills around her were suffocating, and she could not speak. Instead she lifted a hand, shielding her eyes against the glare of the patrollers.

_Dead._ Borogor. Lying in the forest of Ithilien. How many days ago? One… two… three… she tried to count, but the Orcs were yelling at her.

_Dead._ Why? Faramir. The woods… Men pouring from all directions, swords glinting in the dying sunlight…

She looked up at the Orcs. They all recognized her. But they wanted the password. Borogor had always said it… so many times… His voice echoed in her ears, and speaking was too hard. But she needed to tell him. Golden hair.

_Dead._ Brown hair. Yellow, brown. Mixed together confusingly. Where was he? The Orcs were shouting at her. She had to do something. Trouble would come if she did not.

Trouble. There it was. Golden… Haldor. Looking down at her from the gate, motioning at the sentinels furiously. She started, stumbling in his direction. So weak… had she eaten anything? No. Drank? Yes. Running water. Running as she had run.

The Gate was opening. She moved forward. _Have to tell him. Dead._ Borogor. Gone, going, going… no, just gone. Going was the arrow speeding towards him. Why had she not done anything? And now he lay there. _Dead._

She had passed the Gate, and crowds of Orcs were upon her. Black everywhere. It was raining. Raining blows upon her face, chest, arms. They were nothing to her. Nothing was numbness. Numb was death. _Dead,_ dead like Borogor. Fallen to the ground as she was falling, and she was lying there, with black on top of her…

There was shouting. More shouting. Just adding to the din that already was there. The black was changing. A flash of gold. Haldor. _Dead._ No, dead was Borogor. Was she dead as well? It was so unreal… But then there was pain from the blackness, spreading through her entire body.

It hurt so much, and she wanted to scream but she could not… Her screams were left at the clearing, left with Borogor. _Dead._ Someone was lifting her. Not Borogor. Golden hair. Haldor. Saying something to her as the black cleared, but nothing could pierce the cold… It was so cold, all of a sudden.

They were moving away from the black. She was on her feet, but being pushed along. _Borogor,_ she thought, and tried to say his name. A low moan came out, and she was shoved forward again. There were the tents… rising peaks, jagged like rocks… rocks that Borogor had taught her to fight behind…

And then a tent opened its mouth and swallowed her. She stumbled. The floor rushed up to meet her, but hands on her arms kept it away. She saw stars. Bright in the sky, wheeling above like tiny flames… pinpricks of light… light from the Wargs' eyes…

She nearly vomited, but something was shoved under her nose. A cup.

"Drink it," someone said. Gold was dancing in front of her. She took the mug; raised it to her lips and let the liquid flow. Flowing like the blood from Borogor's arm.

Gúthwyn choked, but her surroundings were already becoming clearer. She could see the sharp outline of everything, including Haldor—he was right in front of her.

"Haldor," she said quietly, and moved closer to him. That was what she had come here to do. To tell him.

He was silent, watching her.

"Dead," she spoke, and felt herself going numb.

"All of them?" he asked at last, and his piercing eyes captured hers. Piercing as the arrow.

"All of them," she confirmed, but she had to finish it. "Borogor."

"Dead?"

"Dead."

The golds and browns were swimming confusedly before her now; she swayed, away from it all, away from it all. Strong arms caught her. They were unexpectedly face to face…

"Haldor," she whispered, and her hands were in his hair, gold not brown… she was clinging to him, tilting her head up.

He bent down. Their lips touched, and she was falling into him, her tongue wrestling frantically with his own, wanting this, _needing_ this, because it was something to hold onto—_the life left him and he crumpled to the ground, the sword falling out of his hand_—something that was there.

She deepened the kiss.

* * *

Gúthwyn felt herself slowly becoming awake. At first she was not sure where she was; everything seemed a foggy blur. _What is going on?_ she wondered confusedly, blinking rapidly. _Where am I?_ Her hands spread out, and she felt a mattress beneath her… a bed. Haldor's bed.

With a gasp, she flung herself up, twisting around to see Haldor lying right beside her. Neither of them were wearing clothes.

"What—?" she choked out, and suddenly she was drowning in memories. The expedition to Ithilien. Borogor, being wounded by the Ranger captain. Sewing him up, and old Aegnor. The ambush… the second-in-command… _Borogor._ "No!"

Haldor reached up and took her shoulder, but she wrenched away from him, leaping off the bed and scrambling backwards in a panic. "What did you do?" she demanded, looking wildly around. Her tunic and pants were in a crumpled heap on the floor, yet she could not remember how they got there… after Borogor her mind was blank.

He laughed. "What did _I_ do?" he asked, his tone mocking. "What did _you_ do?"

"What do you mean?" A hysterical note was in her voice as she fumbled for her clothes. "What is going on?"

The Elf sat up, his eyes narrowed—yet there was a smirk playing upon his face, one that she did not like at all. "You remember nothing?"

She shook her head, pulling her pants on as fast as she could. "What did you do?"

"You do not remember making love to me?"

Her shirt slipped on, and she stared at him, aghast. "What do you mean, making love to you? I would never—"

"And yet you did, last night," Haldor replied calmly, getting to his feet. He began putting his leggings on.

Gúthwyn felt as though a bucket of ice water had been poured over her head. "You are making this up," she said, trembling as he looked at her.

"I do no such thing." Haldor took a step towards her, and she wrapped her arms protectively around herself. "Arms down."

She obeyed. He was now inches away from her; hastily, she stared at the floor, willing herself not to cringe as he began walking in a slow circle around her.

"So you are telling me that you do not remember kissing me—"

_Her tongue was sliding along his, tentatively exploring his mouth, a thousand emotions welling up within her…_

"—touching me—"

_­Her hands moved along his face, touching, memorizing, every inch of his skin; then slowly, cautiously, running through golden hair; and finally slipping down his back, resting on the top of his leggings_.

"—_begging_ me—"

"_Haldor, please," she whispered, needing their bodies to join together. He was holding himself above her, just out of reach, and every second was unbearable. "Please…"_

"—making love to me—"

_Then he had entered her, and she clung to him as she was pressed into the mattress; it felt _good_, and so _right_, and there was brown in front of her face instead of gold, so she begged him to move harder, faster…_

"—moaning—"

_She groaned in utter bliss as something exploded inside of her. Everything was wet as he pulled out; yet she wanted more, once was not enough… And so she drew him to her again, kissing the pale lips; all was brown, not gold…_

"—nothing?"

He had completed the circle around her. Gúthwyn reeled as wave after wave of horrible memories crashed down on her, each more humiliating than the last. Haldor watched her, triumphantly; she clamped her hand over her mouth, feeling as though she would be sick. No, sick was not a strong enough word. How could she have—how did this—what had she done?

Then he was pulling her hand away, his free one on her shoulder.

"You are excellent at kissing," he breathed. "Your one talent; how befitting of a whore."

Suddenly he was upon her, his mouth devouring her own, his tongue jamming down her throat. Gúthwyn gagged, whimpering in terror as she tried to push him from her. He laughed as they separated.

"Not so eager now that it is morning," he observed, cupping his hand around her face.

Something inside her snapped. With a howl, she twisted out of his grasp and flung herself at the tent flap, narrowly missing his outstretched hand. The morning air slapped at her cheeks as she ran. Her feet pounded into the ground relentlessly as she sprinted towards her tent. Passing men—the training session would begin in minutes—stared at her as she flew by them, but she did not give them a second glance.

When she arrived at the tent, Gúthwyn did not even make it inside before she crumbled to her knees and began vomiting. Self-disgust and loathing were destroying her; she retched even more as she thought of making love to Haldor. She could not believe she had done such a thing. Tears of horror came to her eyes, which she quickly brushed away; yet the pain was still there, as well as the knowledge of what she had done.

The sound of someone walking, from the direction of the training grounds, met her ears, and then a pair of booted feet came into her view. Looking up, wiping her mouth weakly on her sleeve, she saw Dîrbenn staring down at her.

"The children have already gone," he said flatly. "Haldor sent me to get you."

Gúthwyn got shakily to her feet. "What is wrong?" she asked. Dîrbenn was glaring at her fiercely.

"Come on, move," he ordered her shortly, and took her arm, intending to drag her forward.

She yanked herself away from him. "Dîrbenn, what is it?" she questioned, looking curiously at him. He was usually calm and collected, but now she could see a furious, barely-concealed rage boiling within him.

"Do not pretend to be innocent, you miserable little whore," he snapped at her. Gúthwyn blinked, her eyes widening in shock. Dîrbenn had never been so rude to her—partly out of respect for Borogor, she knew, but he was one of the last people she would have expected to say something like that to her.

"I-I do not understand," she said, taking a step back.

"Are you that oblivious?" Dîrbenn bore down on her, so that their faces were inches away. He was shouting at her. "Borogor dies, and the first thing you do is sleep with Haldor! His worst enemy!"

"Dîrbenn, I—" Gúthwyn began, feeling so wretched that she could have broken down sobbing.

"Shut your mouth!" he roared. His hands were curled into fists. She had never seen him so angry in her entire life. "He was going to marry you, Gúthwyn, _marry_ you!"

The sentence hung in the air, and Gúthwyn stared at him in utter shock. _Marry you._ The words echoed over and over again in her mind…

_He seemed reluctant to speak; she watched as he shifted back and forth on his feet. His hands took hers, gently massaging them. "Gúthwyn, I was wondering—"_

"No…" Gúthwyn whispered, and then her whole world was crashing down on her. "No!"

"He obviously never got the chance to ask you," Dîrbenn snarled, "but I am glad he did not. You would have broken his heart!"

The extent of her foolishness, the extent of her _stupidity_, was destroying her. "You lie!" she screamed suddenly, reaching forward and grabbing him by the shirt. "You lie! He was not!"

Dîrbenn shoved her away. "He told me himself," he hissed. "Right before you left. He kept saying, 'I love her, Dîrbenn. I love her.' _Love._ You deserve none of his love!" He spat at her feet.

"Stop it," she said. All of the signs… all along… how had she missed them? How could she not have known? "Stop it!"

"You bitch!" Dîrbenn yelled back. "You horrible, disgusting, foul little _bitch_! How dare you call yourself his friend?"  
"_Stop it!_" Gúthwyn shrieked. Why had she not realized how _blind_ she had been?

Dîrbenn looked absolutely revolted. "You make me sick," he growled, and without another word turned away. She watched his back as he strode back to the training grounds, yet made no move to stop him.

Instead she sunk to her knees, burying her head in her hands. "Borogor…" she murmured. The knot in her heart was so tight that she could hardly bear it. "I love you, too."

Ever since he had cared for her, asking only for her trust in return. She had loved him for so long—in her heart she knew it had been years. How had she not recognized it for what it was? _How had she made love to Haldor?_

"Borogor," she whispered again, "will you ever forgive me?"


	50. Blood

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Eight:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-Eight**

When Gúthwyn arrived at the training grounds, the men were retrieving their bows, preparing to start the day's practice. She had thought she was going to be late—it had seemed like years since she fell to her knees, begging for Borogor's forgiveness.

At the thought of him, the numb, dull blanket around her grew thicker. Not realizing how dangerous this was, she moved to the cart containing the bows, too lethargic to care when Dîrbenn caught her eye and sent a terrible glare in her direction, nor when Sîdhadan purposely shoved into her from behind. To keep herself from thinking about Borogor, _anything_ to keep herself from thinking about him, she watched the children. They were going around and offering water to the men, as they always did.

Haiweth tottered over to Burzum the Easterling, Hammel following closely in her wake. "Water?" she heard Haiweth ask. The girl held out the ladle, but Burzum was speaking with another man and did not answer.

Hammel took Haiweth's shoulder and tried to steer her away, but Haiweth would not be deterred. "Water?" she said again, louder. Burzum either did not notice or ignored her.

Gúthwyn stirred, and took half a step to the children.

"Water!" Haiweth shrieked, and tugged at the Easterling's hand.

Burzum whirled around and struck her around the head. "Shut up!" he roared as she fell to the ground and promptly started crying hysterically.

"Stop it!" Hammel yelled at him. Gúthwyn felt a terrific rage growing within her as she neared them. Burzum's back was to her, but she could see the tears streaming down Haiweth's face, as well as the panic on Hammel's own as he stared up at the towering Easterling.

With lightning fast movement, Burzum grabbed the boy by his arm and flung him into the dirt alongside his sister. "Do not talk back to me ever again, boy, do you understand?"

Gúthwyn reached them at this moment. She clamped her hand down on Burzum's shoulder. As the Easterling turned towards her, she punched him as hard as she could, narrowing her eyes in satisfaction as blood spurted from his nose.

"You whore!" he spat, and suddenly Gúthwyn found herself flat on her back, her head screaming in agony. Burzum was upon her before she had time to catch her breath, but even though he had caught her by surprise she would not let him have his advantage for long. As he tried to punch her a second time, she kicked him fiercely in the ribs and groin, causing him to double over. She rolled out from underneath him as he crashed down.

He was back on her feet at almost the same instant as she was, and soldiers jumped on both of them, grabbing their arms and pulling them away from each other.

"Dîrbenn, let me go!" she yelled at the man as he dragged her backwards. Burzum was shouting equally furious things at the Easterlings restraining him, but there were strict rules against fighting during training. Already Haldor was marching over.

As the Elf shoved his way into the circle that had gathered around her and Burzum, a silence fell upon the entire group. Haldor's eyes fell on her and the Easterling captain.

"Fighting each other at practice?" he asked softly. "Burzum, I expected better of you." He turned to Gúthwyn. "Still trying to take your mind off of Borogor, I see."

She flushed bright red with anger, but in Dîrbenn's suddenly vise-like grip she was powerless.

"Does anyone know what we do with troublemakers?" Haldor stared at various members of the crowd as he spoke, and they shifted uneasily.

One of the Easterlings stepped forward. "They have a choice," he said, exchanging a look with Burzum.

Gúthwyn frowned. Now that she thought about it, in all of her years in Mordor she had never seen anyone brawling on the training grounds. She supposed she was about to find out why.

"A choice of what?" Haldor pressed the Easterling.

"Between a duel, to settle the argument, and being whipped."

"Duel," Gúthwyn spat out, not taking her eyes off of Burzum once. The captain's eyebrows rose, but a small smile played upon his features.

"Duel," he confirmed, and a smirk formed on Haldor's face. He looked almost amused.

"Very well, then," the Elf said. "Let them go!"

Gúthwyn found herself being released by Dîrbenn, not sure what she had gotten herself into. "What does he mean by duel?" she asked, thinking that it would be the two of them sparring.

Dîrbenn stared at her as if she were mad. "Duel to the death," he told her. "Go over and get a sword."

"To the death?" she echoed, but even as she spoke a sense of resolve was settling into her. So be it.

She was led to one of the smaller carts, where a pile of swords was waiting for the afternoon. Burzum was already there, examining the blades carefully, looking for the best one to use. "Think you can do this without _Borogor_ covering your miserable back?" he sneered.

Gúthwyn snatched a sword out of the pile, hardly glancing at it, and left without another word. All of the men were spreading back, forming a large open space. Hammel and Haiweth were standing blankly off to the side; she went over to them, crouching down.

"What's going on?" Haiweth wanted to know, reaching out for her hand.

"I am going to settle a disagreement," Gúthwyn replied. "Hammel, I want you to take Haiweth and go back to the tent. Do not come out until I return for you, do you understand?"

"Are you returning?" Hammel asked quietly. Unlike Haiweth, he was perfectly aware of what was happening. His eyes were wide and somber.

Gúthwyn placed her hands on his small shoulders. "I swear to you, I will," she vowed firmly. "You have nothing to worry about. Now go, quickly!"

"Gúthwyn!" Haiweth cried as her brother started dragging her away. Gúthwyn gave a small smile. Her blood was beginning to race through her veins.

Someone tapped her on the arm. She turned around and saw Dîrbenn, holding out what looked like several pounds' worth of armor.

"You will need this," he said grimly.

"No," she replied flatly, glancing past him to see Burzum strapping on a pair of thick leather gauntlets. She did not want armor. She knew what she had to do, and no help was required.

"Do you have a death wish?" he asked incredulously, but Gúthwyn merely gripped her sword tighter and stepped past him. Entering the space set aside, she was well aware that the other soldiers must have thought her insane—but what their opinion was did not matter. This was a job, and she was going to finish it.

Burzum was reaching for a helmet when he caught sight of her standing there without armor, staring determinedly at him. "Confident, Gúthwyn?" he inquired in a mocking tone, smirking at her.

"Shut your mouth and get over here," Gúthwyn snarled. Everything around her was disappearing, so that it was just her and Burzum. Only one of them would be alive at the end of the day, and she knew exactly who it would be.

The smile faded off of Burzum's face, replaced by a menacing expression. Leaving the helmet where it was, he took his sword and strolled over to her, casting off the gauntlets as he went.

"I would not want this fight to be unfair," he said loudly, eliciting several laughs from onlookers. Most of them did not care for her at all; yet it was of no importance, Gúthwyn thought. Her eyes were narrowed, and her muscles were taut with anticipation.

Burzum inclined his head. "Bow, little one." His voice was overly polite.

"I will not bow to filth such as yourself," she snapped. "Dispense with the flattery. We both know it means nothing."

"Learn to keep your uncouth tongue to yourself, you whore," he retorted. "Although, ten minutes from now, I suppose it will not matter."

Gúthwyn ignored his jibe. She took a step back, about to settle herself into a defensive stance and wait for him to come to her. Before she had time to do so, he lunged at her. She blocked it easily, half-expecting the low trick, and for the next minute their swords clashed furiously together. A rush of adrenaline, such as she had never known before, was running through her veins. She would kill him. She _wanted_ to kill him.

It was clear to her, after that first moment, that she surpassed him in skill. He had been pushing her back a few feet when he relented; she moved forward, and he immediately gave a sweeping strike intended to drive into her abdomen. Effortlessly she parried it, and his eyes widened in shock. He had used the same trick, with infallible success, on just about everyone he sparred against. It was then that they both knew who the victor would be.

The knowledge gave her a surge of energy, and she lashed into Burzum with a string of attacks such as she had not performed on anyone except for Borogor. Self-loathing, misery, and absolute hatred pushed her harder, faster, and more relentlessly than she had ever gone in her life. The only thing that was important now was killing Burzum… and watching him suffer for everything he had done to her and the children.

Abruptly changing tactics as their swords clashed, she feinted to the right and then cut to the left. Her sword connected with his arm before he could recover from his mistake, and then there was blood pouring out of it. She had not severed the limb, but given him a large gash on its side.

Burzum clamped his hand over the wound, staring at her in shock. Yet she was not going to give him any quarter—a fight to the death was a fight to the death. She raised her sword again, and this time when their swords met the action was desperate. A moment of furious dueling followed, broken when a sluggish blocking movement from him left his leg open. She took the opportunity.

The next instant, Burzum howled in agony as she slashed all the way down his thigh. Her sword came back scarlet red; the Easterling sunk to his knees, clutching at his leg.

"Get up," Gúthwyn snapped. He was not going to walk away from this fight.

He moaned, trying uselessly to staunch the bleeding.

"I said, get up!"

Burzum struggled to his feet, and she barely let him regain his footing before launching into a whirlwind of attacks and strikes. Less than a minute later, she had gotten under his guard again and given him a long, deep cut on his stomach. His screams echoed in her ears as he fell to the ground once more, curling up on his side and wrapping his arms around the wound.

Fury was infesting her. "_Get up!_" she screamed at the fallen warrior. "_Get up and fight me!_"

He groaned, and to her disgust he began crawling away from her. With a hideous snarl, Gúthwyn leaped after him, catching him by the hair and lifting him up so that he was on his knees, facing her. She kicked the sword out of his hands and stared down at him.

"You sicken me!" she yelled at him. "You are _pathetic!_ You do not run away from me! It is fine for you to terrorize children, yet you cannot defeat a _woman?_ You are not fit to be a warrior!"

In her blind rage, she did not realize how much her words echoed those of Haldor's, spoken to her in the dark nights under smothering blankets. Bitterness poured from her mouth like poisoned water from a choking fountain.

"Do you remember that day when _I_ was on the ground? How you would have shown me no mercy? Who will save you now? Borogor—" Gúthwyn stopped abruptly, and to her horror felt tears come to her eyes. "Get up and fight me!" she shouted instead, shaking him as she blinked rapidly. "Fight!"

His dark eyes were wide with panic. "Forget it," she snapped angrily. "You are not half of what he was."

Before he could do anything, she placed her sword at his throat and dug it into the flesh and sinew. Blood spewed out of the wound, spraying her face with red and changing the color of her hand. As Burzum choked and gasped his life out, she kept his head tilted up so that his last sight was of her smoldering, unforgiving eyes.

When the life had fled his body, and his eyes were unfocused, she felt nothing. No remorse, pity, or even anger. Yet there was one more thing she had to do. Lifting up her sword again, she severed his neck. Burzum's head was now in her hands; she held it aloft, and turned around to face the crowd. They were shocked, gaping at her in horror. Several of the men were pale and sweaty. None of them had expected this.

"If _any_ of you so much as _touches_ the children," she shouted, her voice loud and clear, "this will be your fate!"

Then she looked at the Easterlings. With one swift motion she hurled Burzum's head at them; they scattered like leaves in the wind. Hardly giving them a second glance, she dropped her sword on Burzum's body and began moving towards the edge of the clearing. The soldiers made way for her, not seeming to want to get to close—Gúthwyn walked away from the training grounds, feeling as though all her energy had been spent.

She had neared her destination when she saw a small figure crouching between two tents, staring at her blood-covered form in terror and whimpering.

"Hammel?" she asked, coming over to the child and kneeling beside him. "Hammel, what is wrong?"

He cringed away from her. "Y-you changed," he burst out. "You l-looked like a m-m-monster!" And then he began crying, putting his hands over his eyes and sobbing for the first time in her memory.

Gúthwyn realized that he was right. She had changed—she had felt it within her. Facing the prospect of death, she had not shied away from it, but attacked it headlong, with all the ferocity of a cornered animal. And for Hammel to see something like that…

"Oh, Hammel," she whispered, reaching out for the boy and sweeping him into a hug. At first he tried to pull away, but then became limp in her arms. His body was shaking uncontrollably. "Hammel, I am sorry that you had to see that." She really was. For a short amount of time, Burzum had provided her with an outlet for all of the emotions tearing her up from within; now shame was returning the victor.

Still the boy's tears fell faster, and she rocked him back and forth. "It is alright now," she murmured, stroking his hair. "I am not a monster anymore."

Yet as she held him tightly, she was aware that she had not spoken the truth. She _was_ a monster. How many times had Haldor told her so? Never directly, but they both knew that she was. On the inside, and on the outside; a pathetic whore with a hideously disfigured face could hardly call herself a thing of beauty.

Together, the young boy and the woman remained on the ground. Neither of them could have possibly predicted the change that the morning's events would bring.


	51. The Dark Tower

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Forty-Nine:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Forty-Nine**

Mordor was growing darker by the hour. Night settled in comfortably over the Black Land, bringing the eventful day to an end. Gúthwyn was sitting inside her tent, waiting with the children for the return of the men. She had decided not to return to the training grounds—Hammel and Haiweth's safety would be at stake until the temper of the Easterlings had cooled off.

The day had been utterly terrible, despite triumphing over Burzum in their duel. Whenever she closed her eyes, she could see Borogor's face before her, uncomfortably asking for a word. Then he would lean back and forth, clenching and unclenching his fists, trying to form a sentence. Nothing else had she regretted so intensely that he had never gotten the chance to.

Her heart was drenched in grief, only made worse by the realization of how, if Faramir and his men had waited another minute, she would have been betrothed to Borogor. Tears did not, could not, come to her eyes, but as she wrapped herself in Borogor's cloak, she felt more unhappy than she had ever been in her entire life.

Hammel and Haiweth clearly sensed her sorrow; they did not, of course, understand what was going on, nor did they know anything about Borogor's unfinished proposal, but they could tell that she was miserable all the same. Haiweth had spent the afternoon sitting on her lap, trying to comfort her in what limited ways the five-year-old could devise. Hammel chose to remain silent, sitting stiffly beside the two of them. She knew he had not forgotten the morning's events, either.

The tent flap opened, and the men filed in. Dîrbenn was first, and right after him was Sîdhadan; both of them cast such fierce glares over at her that she held a now-sleeping Haiweth tighter. She became vividly aware that, if she had not just proven herself mightier than Burzum, they would have exchanged angry words with her; they might even have tried to harm her. Dîrbenn was so fiercely loyal to Borogor that he would certainly feel no qualms about doing such a thing.

As it was, she could almost feel the hatred being directed towards her from all corners of the tent. With Borogor around, few had dared to raise their hands or mouths to her. Yet now that he was gone, she realized just how many of the soldiers despised her or thought her a slut. Sleeping with Haldor—her stomach turned at the memory, and her face burned with shame—had certainly not helped matters.

At that moment, someone stepped inside the tent. There was a flash of golden hair; Gúthwyn froze: Haldor stood before them.

"You," he said to her. The other men exchanged dark looks. "Come with me."

Haiweth was still in her lap. Gúthwyn instinctively clutched the girl to her. She could feel her own body trembling.

"Move," Haldor ordered, and hastily she put Haiweth to the side; scrambling to her feet and removing Borogor's cloak, placing it upon Haiweth, she approached him meekly.

"Haldor," she whispered, terrified by the thought of being taken to his bed, "what more do you want from me?" She did not think she could bear another night with him, especially after what she had just done.

"Nothing," he said, and then raised his voice slightly. It did not matter; the soldiers were listening intently in on their conversation. "Though you were excellent last night—interesting, how the death of a friend can do that to you…"

Gúthwyn would have slapped him, if she had a tenth of the bravery. Yet then he put an arm around her shoulders, letting his hand trail down her back. She tensed, arching as he leaned towards her. "Tomorrow, I think," he muttered. "Plan on staying the entire night."

She whimpered as he slid his hand up to the base of her skull. "No, please…" she said, her voice hardly a whisper.

Haldor drew away from her, and she realized that he was doing this because of the other men—in their eyes, he was showing them just how despicable she was, how little she cared of Borogor's death. When she turned to Dîrbenn, who was sitting there with his hands clenched into tight fists, she knew that the technique had worked. Too well.

"Dîrbenn," she began pleadingly, not wanting to ask a favor of him, but having no other options. "Will you watch the children?"

Dîrbenn got to his feet. He was actually shaking in fury as he stepped closer to her. "You disgusting, _sickening…_"

And suddenly, without warning, the action so unexpected that Gúthwyn stood dumbfounded as it happened, he punched her. His fist landed solidly on her jaw, and there was an explosion of agony. She gasped as her head was knocked to the side, spitting out a mouthful of blood. A coppery, tangy smell rose into the air.

"Yes, I will watch them," Dîrbenn snarled as she straightened, her hand over her mouth and her eyes wide in shock, "but understand that I am doing this for them, not for you. I will be happy if you rot in the Void for doing this to his memory!"

"Dîrbenn, I—" she began, but Haldor took her arm and pulled her away, destroying all hope of reconciliation. Dîrbenn's eyes narrowed, and he spat at her.

Haldor smirked, and thrust her out of the tent. She stumbled into the night air, for a brief moment panicking in the darkness. The Elf's hand wrapped around her wrist, and she gasped as he closed the gap between them.

"We are going to the fortress of Barad-dûr tonight," he spoke, and for a moment she thought that she had not heard him correctly.

"W-what?" she asked, stopping and squinting at his form.

He pushed her forward again. "The Dark Lord wants to see his experiment in the flesh."

Gúthwyn paled. "W-what are you t-talking about?"

"Surely you did not think that the slaughtering of the Easterling leader would go unnoticed by those in the Tower."

Her entire body was shaking violently. She had heard tales, tales of how even the strongest-willed were driven mad by a black shadow, having no shape but somehow even more frightening of a presence without one. It was common knowledge amongst the soldiers that the Eye of Sauron was not just a brand on their wrists—it was a real thing, perched on top of Barad-dûr, watching over the lands with a ceaseless, unswerving stare. Its gaze could penetrate through cloth and steel alike.

To hear that Sauron wanted to see _her_ was horrifying. She swayed, imagining what the Dark Lord would do to her. Everything was turning black… so black, like him…

"Get yourself under control!" Haldor grabbed her by the arms and pushed her along. "You are a disgrace!"

"Haldor, no, not there!" she gasped, trying to twist away from him. He slapped her, and she was subdued.

"You will do as I say," he snapped, "or you are going to _live_ in my tent! Do you understand me?"

A moan escaped her. She was going to die.

"_Do you understand me?_" he repeated, increasing the pressure on her wrist.

"Yes!" Gúthwyn choked out, and he released her. It was a mark of how much control he had over her that she did not turn around and run away; rather, she remained close to him as the night pressed in on her.

They continued the walk in silence, until Gúthwyn realized that they were not heading east, but west towards the Black Gate. "Why are we going this way?" she asked, hesitantly, not sure if he would yell at her for speaking.

"Because, fool, one does not walk to Barad-dûr from Udûn. They ride—has your mind escaped its insufferable containment?"

Gúthwyn felt herself turning red, but she did not dare reply. The Morannon was swiftly approaching, and before she knew it an Orc was coming up to them.

"My lord," he said, bowing low to Haldor, but Gúthwyn saw a flash of rage crossing his eyes. She wondered if Haldor had the power to treat Orcs as terribly as he did the human portion of Sauron's army.

"Get me a horse," Haldor answered shortly, and the Orc straightened before hastily striding away.

She would have liked to point out that she could ride, but she thought the statement would only serve to augment Haldor's foul temper. Yet suddenly she became aware of how long it had been since she had actually ridden a horse—seven years, almost. She did not know what day it was, but the last time had been on her twelfth birthday.

Soon the Orc returned, leading with some difficulty a large black mare. Haldor's hands suddenly grabbed her by the waist, instilling a rush of panic as he lifted her effortlessly onto the horse. He mounted behind her an instant later, taking the reins; his arms were wrapped around small frame, and she stiffened at their proximity. Without another word Haldor kicked at the horse, sending the beast galloping off into the night.

Gúthwyn knew they must be going east, but other than the gleaming Eye of Sauron she could see nothing—not even lights from the soldiers' tents. The horse's hooves pounded over a flat surface: Most likely the training grounds, which were connected by the Isenmouthe to the vast, terrible plain of Gorgoroth. There was a road that she had never set foot upon, leading to Barad-dûr. She trembled now to think of herself and Haldor, passing through the night like the Black Riders Borogor had told her about.

At the thought of Borogor, a hard lump formed in her throat, accompanied by the endless questions that she had been asking herself over and over again. How had she not realized her love for him until it was too late? Why had fate cruelly intervened, using Faramir and his Rangers to rip him away from her? And why, _why_ had she made love to Haldor? Her face tightened, and she was nearly sick before regaining control of herself.

Dîrbenn was right. She was a whore. Less than four days after the death of the man she loved, whom she had called her best friend and savior, she was sleeping with his worst enemy. Horrible feelings wormed their way into her gut as she remembered the pleasure she had inexplicably experienced. For some reason, she was unable to recall much that she _saw_ that night—Haldor's hair was golden, yet she kept thinking of brown. The idea of hallucinating was a hopeful solution, that the whole incident had been the result of her ruined mind, but the fact remained that she had shared the Elf's bed and _enjoyed_ it. Not just enjoyed it. _Begged_ him for more.

It seemed like the rest of the journey took hours to complete. She did not know how far Barad-dûr was from Udûn, but based on the speed of the horse and the time they had been going, she estimated that the distance was at least fifty miles, maybe closer to twenty leagues. Her legs were not sore, being an experienced rider, but she did not relish being stuck on an unfamiliar horse with Haldor for hours on end.

The light from the Eye unexpectedly shone brightly in her eyes. Haldor pulled the horse to a stop, and she realized that they must have arrived at the tower. She could not see any of what must have been an enormous structure, but she felt the evil emanating from it as easily as she was aware of Haldor's body pressed against hers. For a moment her heart froze; then it began beating wildly within her chest.

Haldor quickly dismounted, and she followed suit. He took her by the arm and started dragging her forward.

"Haldor, I cannot see anything!" she gasped. Panic was swirling within her—the darkness was so absolute, so complete, that even the gleam of the Elf's eyes was obscured. She whirled around, trying to find some source of light, even if it was a Nazgûl carrying a torch.

"Learn to get used to it," he snarled. "You are in the Black Land, not the sun-filled _Rohan_."

Breathing was becoming harder and harder by the second. Her throat was constricted by something, and as her eyes darted wildly to and fro she could herself cringing against Haldor, needing to know that she was not alone. He let her lean on him, yet when he wrapped a tight arm around her she was well aware that it was not for her benefit.

"Can you even remember Borogor's face anymore?" he asked, the smirk evident in his voice. Gúthwyn whimpered, trying to move away from him, but as always he brought her even closer to him. "He hated me as he did no one else, you know."

"I do not blame him," she whispered angrily, her eyes brimming with tears. Hastily, she blinked them back, terrified of what Haldor would do if he saw them.

"That was not your opinion last night," Haldor replied smoothly, and one of his hands moved down to her stomach.

Gúthwyn was almost sick. "You knew I was not thinking," she replied, her voice shaking in both horror and rage. "You knew it, and you took advantage of me…"

Haldor's laugh reverberated painfully in her ears while he pushed her forward some more. "You knew exactly what you were doing," he said. "'Please, Haldor, please! No, please—" He was adding the moans as he spoke, completing the humiliation. This time Gúthwyn really did vomit, wrenching away from him and sinking to her knees as the insides of her stomach spewed out upon the ground.

When she was done—he had not held her hair back like Borogor used to, but watched her in cold silence—she glanced up at him.

"Get up," he spat, all trace of a smile, evil or otherwise, utterly gone.

Trembling, Gúthwyn obeyed. He grasped her arm tightly and started leading her once more. Still everything was pitch black, and Haldor ended up pushing her forward again. Now she was shuddering at the thought of what lay before her. She did not understand how an Eye wanted to see her, especially when he could at any moment of the day; furthermore, she could not make sense of the tales of a dark shadow, if the Dark Lord was really just an Eye.

Yet the prospect of coming face to face with Middle-earth's most dangerous form of evil since Morgoth was terrifying. Her mind was not ready for this. It was like asking an eggshell to withstand an onslaught of a thousand armed men. Already she was sweating and shaking, and she had not even crossed the threshold of Barad-dûr.

Suddenly, all of the ground except what they were walking on fell away, revealing what was an enormous moat surrounding the tower. Gúthwyn had to repress a shriek as she realized that, instead of water, this "moat" was filled with lava: Bright red, gurgling unpleasantly, and radiating such intense heat that for a moment she felt faint. Haldor chose that moment to remove much of his support, and it seemed to take her forever to cross the bridge.

At the end, she espied the forms of countless numbers of Orcs, crowded together at the ledge to see the strange pair coming towards them. At the sight of Haldor, shrieks and cries rose up amongst the creatures, and they separated. The Elf must have been second only to the Nazgûl, she decided as he steered her forward.

They were making their way towards a foreboding set of doors that could not have been made of anything less adamant than steel. They were sunken into the structure, so that there was a small court before them. And within this court, at first so shocking that Gúthwyn thought the acrid fumes from the tower had affected her mind, was a _winged beast_.

It was a hideous thing. When its head turned towards them, she saw that its wings were folded, but she was willing to bet that it had a wingspan larger than any other bird in the world. Yet it was not exactly a bird—no bird could have been so foul, so revolting, so terrible looking.

As she gaped at the beast, Haldor gripped her arms and began moving her towards it. Gúthwyn felt her body tensing in fear and disgust as they drew closer. The stench was so overwhelming that she nearly fainted. "W-what is it?" she stammered.

Haldor was about to answer when a sudden noise screeched into the night air. It ripped at her ears, so loud and unbearable that she sunk to her knees and wrapped her arms about her head. It was a high-pitched, keening note; Gúthwyn found herself screaming as well, needing the agony to stop, feeling as though her ears were about to bleed from the abuse. She had never heard such a ghastly sound in her entire life.

After what seemed like hours, the wailing died down, disappearing slowly and eventually fading into the night. Gúthwyn was pulled to her feet by Haldor; he slapped her.

"You are pathetic," he snarled. "Move!"

He shoved her forward again so that she was standing right beside the creature. It was lowering its head, and she realized with a start that it was what had caused the awful noise. Before she had time to panic, Haldor lifted her and placed her on the thing's back. She gasped, trying to slip off, but the Elf mounted directly behind her, pressing his legs firmly against her own so that she could not escape.

From his mouth poured the words of the harsh, guttural tongue that the Orcs spoke. Gúthwyn could not understand a word of it (nor would she have been able to in any case, as she was preoccupied with his body so close to hers) but evidently the beast could decipher its meaning. With an unexpected, heart-stopping movement, it reared up, pushing off of the ground and spreading its colossal wings.

For the hundredth time that night, she felt sick. The air was rushing into her face, making her eyes sting and water. By the now burning light from the Eye of Sauron, she saw that the creature was flying in swift circles around Barad-dûr, gaining anxiety-inducing levels of altitude with each second. In a wild moment of terror, she thought that it would carry them straight up to face the Eye.

Haldor did not seem concerned at all, but she was seriously considering leaping off of the beast and praying for her safety when it stopped. Gúthwyn glanced up as it hovered in the air, cowering when she looked into the blazing Eye. What drew her in, and at the same time made her recoil, was the small narrow pupil—like a cat's eye it was, only a thousand times worse.

She managed to wrench her gaze away as the beast began to lower itself onto a large outcropping of stone. There was a plain door about twenty feet away, leading into the tower. It was entirely black, interrupted only the symbol of Sauron, glaring bright red at her. For reasons that she could not describe, she felt herself overcome with horror and paralyzing fear at the sight of it.

The creature landed, and Haldor pushed her onto the ground beside it. Gúthwyn's legs were shaking violently; she lasted for only a short instant before crumbling to the stone. Immediately Haldor yanked her up. "This is the second time you have been too weak to stand," he hissed. "Do not let there be a third!"

Moaning, she nodded, and he steered her towards the door. He did not even need to knock before it swung open. She attempted to see what lay beyond, but everything was obscured by a black shadow.

"Go," Haldor commanded, and released her.


	52. An Assignment

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By:WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty:  
**Regarding names, Hammel's I made up—I know it's not a proper name, but I can't think of him as anyone else. Borogor is a modification of Beregond, a citizen of Gondor Pippin meets in _The Return of the King_. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty**

Gúthwyn felt the darkness closing around her as she put a shaking foot into the room. Every nerve in her body was screaming at her to run away, to put as much distance between herself and the Dark Lord as was physically possible, yet Haldor had threatened to murder both of the children. With no other choice but to obey him, here she was.

As she stepped hesitantly inside, an intolerable heat washed over her. The temperature was such that, if it had gone any higher, she probably would have been burned right where she stood. Yet her discomfort was nothing compared to her terror. Evil itself seemed to originate from this very room, obscuring everything else with its malevolence. Nothing could pierce the dark; Gúthwyn tried to imagine Borogor's arms wrapped around her, protecting her from the shadows, but it was futile.

_So, we meet at last._

She jumped as a voice addressed her, coming from both the center of the room and from inside her own mind. Immediately she began backing away, but the door swung shut with the first step she took. Total, impenetrable blackness surrounded her.

_You are not going anywhere,_ the voice continued, and Gúthwyn realized that it was the Dark Lord himself. She quailed, hugging herself despite the heat. Something strange was happening to her mind: It felt as though it were being prodded gently by a wispy hand.

_I see that you have proved better than I could have hoped._

She did not know how to respond, so she remained quiet.

_Out of an entire group of twelve men, trained for years by my lieutenant, it was you—a woman—who returned alone to the Morannon._

Tears threatened to form in her eyes; Gúthwyn closed them tightly. Yet things seemed even worse when she closed herself off from the outside—now her mind was being sifted through, examined thoroughly. A host of memories started attacking her.

_And now, the captain of the Easterlings lies dead at your hands._

She could remember his death so vividly, feel his blood on her hands, hear his moans as she ended his life cruelly and mercilessly. The hand reached further into her recollections, and she found herself thinking of when Burzum had broken her ribs and nose. Suddenly she was reliving the pain and agony all over again, blood pouring down her face. Borogor was above her, pale. _"On the count of three," he said as he and Beregil prepared to lift her. "One, two…"_

Her mind was hurtling through time and space, powerless to change direction, to stop the movement. She was pinned underneath Haldor, struggling frantically, as he slapped her and forced himself on her for the first time. He threw water on her, and crying was pathetic. A bow was in her hand; Haldor was behind her… then blood was streaming down her back as a knife clattered to the ground. She was lying down, facing humiliation by Lumren, her ribs hurting so much… Borogor was scouring the salt from her back, and she was screaming in agony.

A smile came over her as Borogor taught her how to fight, then disappeared as Haldor pressed her against the wall and pulled down her leggings—_for Hammel._ The darkness swallowed her once more; Haldor was sliding his hands along her stomach. _No, please, no. Please!_ The vomit entered her mouth as she slurped it down, Haldor standing right above her. Lumren had shoved her onto the rocks and was touching her everywhere… She was in debt to Haldor, and that night…

And poor Beregil! The spear was thrown, and he was dead. Borogor slapped her. _"This is all your fault!"_ It was… Then there was fever. Hazy nights and days. Borogor's face… Before her in Ithilien, asking for a word. The arrow. Slamming into her friend's chest, and she screamed as he fell to the ground. Begged Faramir for a proper burial. When she returned… Haldor. Golden, not brown, yet brown was all around her. She had spread her legs. _"Haldor, please," she moaned, capturing his lips in yet another kiss. "Please!"_

At that moment the hand withdrew, and Gúthwyn found herself on the ground, with no idea of how she had gotten there, shrieking at the top of her lungs. "Stop! Please, stop!"

Laughter, so unpleasant that she clamped her hands over her ears, echoed throughout the room. Yet it remained in her mind, refusing to leave, until it was ricocheting against her very brain.

_You are frail of mind… All the better for my purpose._

Gúthwyn lifted her head shakily. _Purpose?_ she wondered in puzzlement.

_I am giving you a third chance to prove your worth,_ the Dark Lord informed her, and she jumped.

"M-my worth?" she stammered, slowly and apprehensively getting to her feet.

_You will find yourself rewarded richly if you complete a certain task for me._

He was playing with her, cruelly keeping the necessary information away, leaving only tantalizing hints. "W-what task?" Gúthwyn asked, hardly believing that she was actually conversingwith the Dark Lord.

_To find an item of value that I have lost._

Gúthwyn frowned in confusion. How could Sauron have possibly lost something?

_It has been found again of late, in the keep of one Baggins from the Shire._

The shadow might as well have been whispering in a foreign language. She did not know who or what a Baggins was, nor where this Shire lay.

_It is a land over the Misty Mountains, whose people have gone unnoticed until recently. Baggins is one of them. You will find him, and bring the item back to me. I do not care if you have to slay the wretched thing to get it!_

His voice grew more threatening, and Gúthwyn retreated into the wall. Her back brushed up against something that was most definitely _not_ rock or stone, and she shrieked as she leapt away from it. All along her body, her hair was standing on end.

"Why m-me?" she asked, her tone slightly hysterical. "Why n-not the B-Black Riders?"

_I already have them searching for it, you fool. Thus far, they have been unsuccessful, because all living creatures scatter at their approach and go into hiding. As a woman, you will attract far less attention. Men will spill their secrets to you for the prize of one night._

Gúthwyn bristled, revolted at the very idea.

_The Baggins that you will seek is a Halfling._

She thought she had heard of the Halflings, or the Little People, as they were sometimes called; yet she had believed them to be only a myth, a tale told by mothers to their young children.

Children. Hammel and Haiweth. This 'task' Sauron wanted her to do would take her away from them—over the Misty Mountains was no small distance. To traverse that could take weeks, more likely months. Then there were still the leagues between the Mountains and the Shire, in addition to the fact that she had no idea where the land of the Halflings was. Neither did Sauron, from the looks of it. Her face paled as she realized that such a journey could easily take a year.

"M-my Lord," she whispered, sinking to her knees. "Please, I-I have children, I c-cannot leave them…"

_I am aware that you have children,_ the voice hissed angrily. _Do not think to use them as an excuse!_

"Please, my Lord, please!" she begged, feeling tears pricking at her eyes.

He dismissed her pleas. _Question my orders again, and I will have you thrown into one of the windowless pits beneath this fortress._

The threat slammed into her, and she was silent.

_I am glad we have an agreement._

Suddenly an idea came to her, one so risky that she hardly dared to ask it, yet what came with success was so precious that she could not afford not to. "M-my lord," she started, praying that this would work, "you said I would be rewarded if I… if I find this item and bring it back to you?"

_I always reward my faithful followers._

"If I return with this thing, will you grant the children their freedom?"

There was a silence. Gúthwyn shifted nervously back and forth, wondering if she had gone too far. Hammel and Haiweth's faces flashed before her, and she knew that their freedom would be at heavy cost to her. She did not expect to be freed herself, yet to know that they were safe would make even the nights with Haldor more bearable. _Borogor, have I made a good choice?_ she asked, tilting her head upwards to the heavens, where her friend must have been at this very moment.

_Why should I?_ Sauron questioned at last. The air was thick with suspicion.

"Please, my lord, I ask for nothing for myself! I only wish for their freedom, for you to release two children who are of no importance to your vast and great army." She paused, panting slightly. "Please, I will do anything for them!"

_You are a fool, to throw away your reward for the sake of two children. Yet I will grant you your folly—_if_, and only if, you return in triumph._

Gúthwyn nearly crumbled to the floor in relief. "You are generous, my Lord!" she cried out, ignoring the twisting of her stomach that came from praising Sauron. "Thank you, thank you!"

_However, if you do not come back…_ There was a coldness in the air now, one that made her shiver and wrap her arms around herself. _Their lives will be forfeit._

The sentence sealed both her fate and determination. "I will find it," she vowed. The brand on her wrist seared and burned, though she made no sign of it. "I will find it and bring it to you, no matter what."

_Good… very good._

She rose. The door that she had not been able to see in the dark now opened, revealing a wonderful light beyond it, but she could not leave until she learned one more thing. "What is it that you want me to find, my Lord?"

The answer was swift, immediate. _The Ring._

For a moment, Gúthwyn gaped into the shadows, certain she had not heard correctly. "A ring?"

_The One Ring. It was forged from the fires of Mount Doom, and appears as a simple gold band. Bring this to me, and I will allow your children to be freed._

Gúthwyn could not believe that she was risking her life, and those of Hammel and Haiweth's, for a piece of jewelry. Yet she bowed compliantly. "I will find it," she repeated.

_You are leaving the day after tomorrow. A horse will be provided for you, as well as some weapons. DO NOT, under any circumstances, reveal the nature of your mission. I will know who has betrayed me._

"I would never do such a thing," Gúthwyn promised, and she meant it. If doing so would endanger Hammel and Haiweth, not even torture would force her in that direction.

_Now, get out of my sight.

* * *

_

Night was changing into day when Gúthwyn returned to the tent, stepping inside silently and tiptoeing to the corner where the children slept. All around her, men were breathing heavily and deeply, untroubled by anything beyond their training schedule. She felt as though she were not a part of this scene, as if she was an intruder, not belonging or deserving to belong to this group of people.

She crouched down beside Hammel and Haiweth. When they woke up in the morning, she would tell them. Haiweth would not react well to the news; she had to think of ways to placate her, false hopes of her safe return. Gúthwyn _did_ have every intention of returning, but she could not tell them that when she did, they would be leaving Mordor without her.

At least from there they had a chance of rebuilding their lives. A lump came to her throat as she thought of them living without her. They would find a family, certainly, one to take care of them and love them—but would they know that Haiweth could sing songs in nonsensical languages for hours on end, if she was permitted? Or that Hammel sometimes slept with his eyes open? Would they know what to do if Haiweth started crying uncontrollably, or if Hammel refused to speak to anyone?

_Do not think of such things,_ she told herself sternly. She had to be strong, and learn to let them go when she returned with this ring.

_A ring!_ she thought incredulously. _How ridiculous!_ What kind of master sent his servants across enemy lands and mountains to search for a piece of jewelry that could be easily reforged? There had to be something special about this thing, but for the life of her she could not possibly guess.

Gúthwyn shuddered as she recalled another conversation from the night. When she and Haldor had returned to the Black Gate, he had walked her back to her tent, much to her grievance. No time had he wasted informing her that he wanted to see her the night before she left—a goodbye present was in order, he had said. She felt herself trembling weakly at the prospect, wondering fearfully what he had in store for her.

Yet she would have to face it, as she always had. And after that… she would be traveling hundreds of leagues away from him. With the exception of Hammel and Haiweth's freedom, this was the only good thing about trying to find her way to the Shire and recover a ring.

Panic started to worm into her, but she refused to let it take a firm hold. So what if she was horrible at directions? So what if she did not know where to begin? So what if she had to forage for food on her own, and had never been hunting before? So what if it took her months to find the Shire, and several more to find the Ring? She would do it—she had to. Hammel and Haiweth's lives were at stake.

More than anything, she wished Borogor were with her. He would know what to do. At the very least, he would promise to watch the children while she was gone; in addition, he would have advice for how to survive, how to find food, how achieve her goal. She missed his firm yet soothing voice, reassuring her that everything was going to be alright. His arms, wrapping around her, allowing her to lean on him in need…

_No, stop it!_ she told herself. Already tears were beginning to form. She stuck her fists in her eyes and rotated them, effectively stopping such weakness.

What she needed now, at this current moment, was sleep. An hour, perhaps, was what she would be able to have before they rose to straggle out onto the training grounds. Dîrbenn usually had the task of waking them up, as he was an early riser. No one, of course, had even thought of using Gúthwyn for the job.

Lying down alongside the children, she reached out and touched Haiweth's hair, running her fingers through it absentmindedly. The child did not stir, and within a minute Gúthwyn's body was as still as hers—both were frozen by sleep.


	53. Happy Birthday IV

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Two**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-One:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. Regarding the dialogue with Sauron in the last chapter, yes, it was probably stupid and cliché, but we never get a good sense of what his speech was like, so I kind of had to flail around a bit. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. In addition, the upcoming chapters will feature disturbing images. If torture and rape scenes bother you, skip over them. I will not post warnings in the middle of the fic, so you'll have to determine for yourself which areas you would like to avoid. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-One**

"Welcome." Haldor's voice grated on her nerves, sending shivers up and down her spine as she stepped into his tent.

Gúthwyn winced as he drew closer to her. _This is the last time for months,_ she reminded herself, struggling not to panic. An hour from now, she would be free. She was leaving tomorrow, and after that he would be miles away from her.

The Elf stood merely a foot away from her. "We shall not be seeing each other for quite a long time," he murmured, reaching out and touching her face, waiting to see her reaction. Try as she might to restrain herself, she flinched, turning her head to the side.

He laughed softly before continuing. "I think, therefore, that tonight should be something you will remember years from now…"

A shudder escaped her. "Haldor, it is my last night with the children," she whispered. "Will you not let me stay with them?"

"No," Haldor replied. "Undress."

Swallowing hard, she did as he told her, still turning away from him as she removed her shirt. He came up behind her, slipping his hands around her waist and resting them on her stomach. A whimper passed from her lips as he started steering her towards his bed, ending when he pushed her upon it. His leggings fell to the floor, and as always she grimaced and looked away.

Haldor settled on top of her, smothering every inch of her body with his. Gúthwyn waited for him to offer the option of begging, but he shook his head. "Not even a 'please, Haldor' will get you out of this," he said.

_Just one more hour,_ she told herself. _One more hour, and this will all be over._

The Elf suddenly reached over her to the floor, where the lantern was kept. As he pulled it up, the flame leapt and danced within its confines, and for a wild moment she thought he was going to burn her. He lifted the cap and tilted it towards her; she tried to wriggle away, but he had her pinned firmly beneath him.

"I do not think we shall be needing this anymore," he said smoothly, and held it so that the opening was just an inch away from her lips. A cold, sinking feeling began infesting her stomach. "Blow it out."

She shook her head frantically, holding her breath in case she accidentally blew out the flame. The shadows were already long enough… she was terrified of what would come to pass if the tent was plunged into darkness.

"I said, blow it out," Haldor growled, and pressed down on her stomach.

Gúthwyn choked. The burst of air from her mouth hit the lantern, and then all was black.

"Now," Haldor began as she moaned in terror, "where were we?" She heard the lantern being placed back on the ground while he spoke.

Her entire body was shaking uncontrollably. The Elf ran a finger down her torso, and she nearly shrieked in fright. "No, no…" she said quietly, each word wavering before it faded into the air.

"You know," Haldor mused, ignoring her feeble struggles, "now that Borogor is dead, I am in need of another second-in-command."

Gúthwyn stopped moving, and looked to where she thought his eyes were. "Y-you are going to replace him?" she asked.

"He was not harsh enough on the men," Haldor replied. "It was his weakness—he was too soft. You were another one of them."

She froze, wondering if Haldor knew that Borogor had been planning on marrying her, but the tone of his voice did not seem any different than usual. "You can never replace him," she said, and for a terrifying moment tears welled up in her eyes. "Not if you searched for the rest of your life, not if you scoured Middle-earth for years on end. He was a better man than you or anyone could ever dream of being!"

Her voice choked on the last words, but he heard them clearly. "A better man would not have tortured you, even when threatened with his brother's life!" the Elf hissed. "A better man would have challenged me, or demanded that I stop toying with you. Yet he stood aside and let it all happen!"

"You have no idea," she retorted angrily. "You have no idea what he was like! He did everything that you ordered him to, but still managed to not become as twisted and foul as you are!"

Hands were placed on the insides of her legs, spreading them apart roughly and effortlessly. Before she had time to panic, he was inside of her, his hands clamping down on her shoulders as he thrust in and out. The punishment for speaking out against him was brutal: Gúthwyn was nearly screaming from the pain in a minute's time, writhing and thrashing underneath him.

"Next time, learn to keep your tongue!" he hissed at her, pushing in so forcefully that she cried out. Pleased by her distress, he made each movement harder and faster. Gúthwyn tried to tilt her head back and pretend that nothing was happening, but the pain was so consuming that at length she was shrieking with each thrust.

He seemed to become feverishly energized as she grew weaker, feeding off of her agony and growing more powerful with each second. His force was unbearable, and she half-expected to start bleeding.

"Haldor, please, stop!" she begged, trying to get out from beneath him. He slapped her.

"This will teach you a lesson," he snarled, sliding a hand down her breasts and onto her stomach.

"No, please, please!" she exclaimed hysterically as the pain increased. Everything was so dark…

"_Beg," he whispered, and his hands were roaming over her body, feeling out the flesh with his finger tips—and prodding, always prodding, deaf to her whimpers and moans as he worked. The shadows were pressing around her, suffocating her, waiting for the moment when she fell and would be theirs. _You are pathetic,_ they taunted her, making themselves heard over her panicked noises. _Small wonder your uncle does not love you anymore. You are weak!

She did not realize that she was screaming until Haldor pulled out of her, leaving her gasping for breath and tears forming in her eyes. Something struck her in the face.

"You disgust me," he spat, his words ringing in her ears. "Not five minutes have passed!"

"Haldor, please, let me go," she begged him once more. "Please!"

"You disappoint me," he replied, stroking her face. She cringed. "Perhaps when you are gone, I shall have to turn to a new source of entertainment…"

"W-what do you m-mean?" Gúthwyn stammered in confusion.

"I notice that Haiweth is getting older," Haldor said maliciously.

She froze. Time seemed to hang in balance as the little girl's smiling face swam before her eyes. "No…" she breathed, horror twisting her stomach mercilessly. "No, no, Haldor, you do not mean that… Please, tell me you are not serious!"

"I am," he answered, and she gagged.

"She is only five! Please, no, I will do anything!"

"Anything?" he asked delicately. She could feel his breath upon her face.

"Anything," Gúthwyn responded shakily. The price would be high, she knew, but the fall would be hard if she did not pay it.

"Well, this opens up a realm of possibilities," he said, and she flinched at the excited tone of his voice. "When you return, we will work something out… preferably here."

She knew fully well that whatever negotiations were to take place, none of them would be in her favor. Yet she was powerless to disagree. "Yes, my lord," she murmured.

Haldor got off of her, and she sat up. "One more thing," he said.

"W-what?" she asked.

"I find that my bed feels overlarge and lonely most nights, without a woman struggling against me."

Gúthwyn tensed, wondering what he was getting at.

"If you were to take up residence here, I might be willing to… overlook Haiweth in favor of you."

"Y-you mean, _live with you?_" she gasped, scrambling off of the bed and backing away from him.

"It is only something to think about while you are gone," he replied evenly. "Of course, if Haiweth's purity does not matter to you, then…" He trailed off, leaving her to imagine the details.

"No, no, I-I will t-think about it," she promised, feeling for her clothes in the dark. Hot tears stung at her eyes, and she wiped them away, loathing and fearing Haldor more than she ever had in her life.

Hands were suddenly placed on her shoulders. Jumping, she straightened before the Elf, seeing a very faint outline of him.

"I will try to refrain myself from the child," he said, "but it may be difficult… After all, your lips are so cold, and hers are undoubtedly warmer…"

He was cruelly baiting her, and Gúthwyn fell for it—hook, line, and sinker. Trembling, she reached for him, placing one hand on the back of his neck and cupping the other around his face. Slowly she leaned in, repressing a shudder as their lips met. His tongue slipped in to meet hers, and for several minutes they languidly explored each other. She slid a hand down his back, as he had done so often to her, deepening the kiss at the thought of Haiweth being in her position.

At length he broke away from her. "We will continue this when you return," he whispered, and she could hear the smirk in his voice.

A shiver ran over her; she realized now that Haldor was too smart to let a kiss cloud his judgment. No matter where she turned, an evil fate still lay before her.

* * *

She entered her tent as morning crept over Mordor. Heavy breathing filled the small space, but a knot formed in her chest as she thought of those who were no longer adding to the rhythmic noise. Beregil, Borogor. Herself, soon to join the list.

"Hope you had fun," someone muttered, and Gúthwyn whirled around to see Dîrbenn leaning against the canvas wall, his arms folded and his eyes narrowed piercingly at her.

Her shoulders slumped. "Dîrbenn," she whispered, moving closer to him. "Dîrbenn, I am not doing this to taint Borogor's memory. Why will you not believe me?"

"Because you turned right around and slept with Haldor, that is why!" Dîrbenn hissed. "He told Burzum how you _begged_ him, how you were _kissing_ him! Yet you let Borogor hold you in his arms and _comfort_ you!"

"I did not know what I was doing!" she replied, knowing even as she spoke that it was futile. "I would never have done it otherwise…"

Derisive laughter echoed through the tent. A few of the men stirred. "You did not know what you were _doing_?" Dîrbenn snorted. He looked both amused and disgusted. "That is the most pathetic excuse I have ever heard."

"I am speaking the truth," she said quietly, somehow feeling even more wretched than she had at any point in Haldor's tent. "What will it take for me to convince you?"

"Nothing you say or do will," he snapped. "You might as well have spat on Borogor's grave. He loved you, and _this_ is how you repay him? For all that he has done for you? Do you even remember him healing your miserable back? Or taking care of you when your ribs were broken? Or staying by your side all night to bring your fever down?"

His accusations were pouring down on her, words dripped in hatred that laid scars on her even as he uttered them. "Dîrbenn… I loved him. I still do." Her voice was quiet, yet he heard every word.

"You whore! You know nothing of love!" he shouted at her. Several men sat up.

"What on Arda is going on?" Sîdhadan grumbled angrily, shaking dark-colored hair out of his face. His eyes fell on her. "You again?" he snarled.

Gúthwyn glanced around, and saw that all of the men were glaring at her. Not a single friendly face was among them.

"What's going on?" someone asked. Everyone turned around to see Haiweth sticking her thumb back in her mouth—a sleepy habit—clutching a blanket around her. Hammel was sitting up as well, watching the group.

"N-nothing, Haiweth," Gúthwyn replied, opening her arms and embracing the girl when she tottered over. The men's faces softened slightly, but they were still resolutely furious at her.

"Are you leaving today?" Haiweth inquired, seemingly unaware of their audience.

"Yes," Gúthwyn said, stroking the girl's hair. "Will you be a brave girl while I am gone?"

Haiweth sighed. "I don't want to be a brave girl," she pouted. "I want you!"

"I will return, I promise," Gúthwyn replied soothingly, eliciting disbelieving looks from the soldiers. She ignored them. "But in the meantime you will have to do what Hammel tells you, do you understand?"

Once again, Haiweth stirred restlessly. "I miss Borogor," she said sadly.

Gúthwyn felt her throat tighten at the mention of the man she loved. "So do I," she whispered, squeezing the child and blinking away tears that were appearing in her eyes. "So do I."

"It is time to go." Dîrbenn's harsh voice interrupted the moment. "The sun is already rising."

"Dîrbenn," Gúthwyn started, turning to him. His fists were clenched. "Dîrbenn, will you please watch the children?"

Haiweth peered over at him, her thumb still in her mouth.

"Fine," Dîrbenn growled. "But this is not for you."

She nodded, more relieved than he could have ever guessed. "Thank you so much."

At that moment, the tent flap opened. Haldor stepped inside, carrying a lumpy package, and Gúthwyn felt her heart clenching. "Are you ready?" he spat at her.

"I-in a minute," she stuttered, then hastily moved over to the corner where she had been sleeping for three years. In a few seconds, she had rolled up her pallet and stuffed it into her small pack along with Chalibeth's cloak. She placed the entire ensemble inside Borogor's larger one, unwilling to part with the precious possessions of her friend.

Haldor sneered. "How touching," he said. Gúthwyn winced, but stood back up and shouldered the pack. Immediately, Haiweth had flung herself into her arms.

"Don't go!" she nearly shrieked, tears starting to spill down her cheeks. "Stay here!"

"Haiweth," Gúthwyn murmured, rocking the girl back and forth gently. "Do not despair, young one. You will see me before long."

Haiweth's tears fell faster. "No!" she screamed into Gúthwyn's waist.

"Come, Haiweth," Hammel said suddenly, appearing behind his sister and prizing her away from Gúthwyn. The child tried to squirm away, but her struggles were futile.

"Hammel," Gúthwyn began, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Look after her, and have a care for yourself as well."

He nodded solemnly. "Good luck." At eight years old, he understood enough to know that she was going on a dangerous mission, though she had not told him what she had been bidden to do.

"Thank you," she whispered. "Farewell to you both."

"Hurry up!" Haldor snapped impatiently. Gúthwyn ruffled the hair on both of the children's heads one last time, then crossed the room to join the Elf. Dîrbenn's upper lip curled.

She glanced nervously up at the commander. "Your gear is outside," he said shortly. "Move."

Gúthwyn took one last look around the tent, her eyes resting on the now subdued Hammel and Haiweth. There were so many memories crammed inside her, fighting for prominence… The majority bad, yet some were surprisingly good. Falling asleep with the children. Returning after a good practice, and even being able to stomach the meat. Soft smiles exchanged with Borogor.

Her musings were interrupted as Haldor all but shoved her out of the tent and into the dull morning light. She folded her arms protectively around herself.

"Arms down," he ordered, and immediately she obeyed. They started walking towards the training grounds. All around them, men were hurrying by, stuffing meat into their mouths as they went, but still taking the time to throw a good long glare at Gúthwyn.

When they arrived, Haldor stopped her with a wave of his hand. "Wait here," he said, and she did, watching him as he strode towards the weapons pile. Today, she noticed a sheathed sword, dagger, bow, and arrow-filled quiver leaned up against the cart. Haldor picked these up, along with some light armor. He brought the items over, depositing them at her feet. "Put on the armor," he instructed her.

There was a pair of gauntlets, a small breastplate, and some leather greaves. Gúthwyn put them on swiftly, observing that the armories had certainly not wasted time producing a quality product.

"A month's supply of food, and a map," Haldor said, putting both in her arms. She stuck them inside Borogor's pack. "Do try and actually eat, for you are no use to anyone dead."

Gúthwyn glared at him, but did not dare say anything. He then presented her with the dagger, and then the bow.

"I would suggest getting some practice in along the way, as I will be most displeased if you return and cannot even come within a yard of the target," he spoke. "I may have to give you private lessons."

Gúthwyn shuddered at the thought of what private lessons would entail.

"Finally, your favorite." Haldor handed her the sword. A small gleam came to her eyes as she strapped the sheathed weapon on the left side of her belt. "And now, I will take you to the Black Gate."

"Haldor," she said suddenly, realizing that she did not know the date. "What is today?"

He glanced at her. "The thirteenth of June," he replied, "in the year 3018, Third Age—though I would hope you knew that."

It figured. Her birthday. "So be it," she whispered to herself. Today, after all, was the beginning of the adventure that would lead her to Hammel and Haiweth's freedom. Happy birthday, indeed.


	54. A Chance Meeting

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Two:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Two**

Gúthwyn sighed wearily, leaning against a large rock and stretching her legs out. Tangled hair fell in her face, and she reached up with a dirty hand to wipe it out of the way, coughing as a slight breeze blew. From her chin to the bottom of her nose was covered in a scarf; Haldor had snidely suggested that she keep her hideous Warg bite from view, and though she hated to admit it, she agreed with him. Another gust of wind blew, causing the hood of Chalibeth's cloak to fall down, and she hastily replaced it, looking around nervously just to reassure herself that no one was around her.

Of course, she was utterly alone, just as she had known she would be. Few people, if any, wandered these desolate lands, and she could not blame them. The only life was wild thickets of thorn-bushes, reaching gnarled fingers up from the otherwise barren ground. A chill eastern wind blew from the mountains, making the environment unpleasant to sleep in. Even more unsettling was the air—it was thick with watchfulness, though she could not understand why.

On her map, the land was marked as Hollin. A cheerful name not befitting the place, she thought. It lay to the west of the Misty Mountains, hugging the towering range and thus cast in shadow for half of the day. Over the past week or so, she had grown to loathe the place. It was her desire to leave it as soon as possible, but she could not until she had struck the Great East Road.

According to her map, which she had nearly memorized at this point, it originated from some place called Rivendell. The name seemed familiar, but she could not put any information to it. From there, it trailed into Arnor, the second half of the old kingdom under Elendil the Tall, in happier days before the disappearance of the king. Gúthwyn guessed that the Shire lay somewhere in that region, so she aimed to follow the road and gather news along the way.

That had been her plan from the beginning, though the entire trip had been a disaster from the moment she had left Mordor, just over four months ago. Rather than ride her mare (whom she had creatively named Éofealu, "dark horse") through the woods of Ithilien, she had gone around the northern edge of the forest. Almost immediately, she had run into the outskirts of the Dead Marshes, which considerably slowed progress as she picked her way—often on foot—over the soft ground.

After that fiasco, she had turned south to hit the Great West Road, but soon after went back into the north: She had entered Rohan, and wished to avoid Théoden as much as possible. Then, of course, she encountered the Entwash, which had required a fording. At length she had started following a route along the edge of the mysterious Fangorn Forest, and had then rounded the last shoulder of the Misty Mountains. Yet before she could cross to the other side, she had had to head south first. The Nan Curunír, the Wizard's Vale, lay in the crook of that last mountain, and to ride brazenly across his land was just asking for death.

There was another river to be forded, the Isen—this had taken quite some time, as Uruk-hai were patrolling along its shores. In the end, she had galloped across it at night, trusting that, with her black cloak, they would think her one of the Black Riders and would not impede her progress. Yet fearful of a pursuit, she had pressed Éofealu faster, arriving in Hollin within the week.

And now here she was. Tired and worn by her travels, reflecting bitterly that she had not even found the Shire yet. Come to think of it, how could she be expected to do so? If Sauron himself was unable to locate the land, how did he think she could? She was the most geographically disinclined person she had ever known, which probably accounted for the painful lengthiness of the journey.

As she thought, she fiddled restlessly with her necklace. Given to her on her twelfth birthday, she had never gotten a chance to wear it openly and proudly. When she was taken to Saruman, Cobryn had warned her to keep it tucked beneath her tunic. In Mordor, she had not dared to even wear it, and had put it away in her pack. But now that she was far away from unfriendly eyes, it was back on her. Though memories of Rohan involved memories of Théoden, whom she now despised, it brought a sad smile to her face to think of Éowyn and Éomer.

Gúthwyn glanced back down at the map, not wanting to remember their deaths. To take her mind off of them, she tried to estimate how long it would take for her to get to this Rivendell place, but ended up chucking the map at her pack. _Knowing me,_ she mused bitterly, _it will likely take another month._ Another month away from Hammel and Haiweth.

She missed them so much that it was a constant ache within her. For the first week away from them, she had always reached out for them at night, only to realize that they were still in the Black Land. The thought of them, toiling away on the miserable training grounds, while she walked upon the lands in freedom (if limited), was almost more than she could bear. But she had to learn to shoulder this burden, if she was ever to retrieve the One Ring. _I am doing this for their sake,_ she reminded herself.

As horrible as it sounded, however, her heart was yearning the most for Borogor. At least with the children, she had a promise of seeing them again. Borogor, on the other hand… For the third time that day, she blinked the tears back. Haunting dreams plagued her of their last moments together. In them, he would always manage to get the words out; she had heard _Gúthwyn, I was wondering if you would be my wife_ so many times that it was as if he had already asked her. But as he was leaning in to kiss her, he would change into Haldor. On more than one occasion, she had woken up, drenched in sweat, panting in terror and unable to go back to sleep.

_Borogor… I miss you so much,_ she thought, gazing off into the empty lands.

Yet they were not empty anymore. Gúthwyn sat up with a start, then scrambled behind a grouping of large boulders. Éofealu was already standing there, munching on some of the sparse grass. She absentmindedly stroked his mane, wishing she had a carrot or something better to give him, and peered between a crack in the rocks.

It was a man making his way on foot, looking even more tired and wayworn than she was. Squinting, she could make out a fine cloak wrapped around his shoulders—mulberry in color, fastened with two shiny broaches. Underneath it, he wore a black, possibly leather, robe, but she was able to see a glimmer of red below that, which looked suspiciously like velvet. Upon his back he bore a round shield. Even from a distance, she could tell that it was of far better make than a common soldier's. To top it all off, there was a glimmering white horn that finished the ensemble.

_He must be a lord of some sort, maybe even royalty,_ she thought. _What is he doing here?_

The man was coming towards her from southwest, presumably having left the South Road. He clearly had not seen her yet, and for a moment she debated what to do. With Éofealu, she could easily get away from him, and she knew that her swordsmanship surpassed that of most. But she was strangely reluctant to kill him, or gallop away and leave him behind. She supposed that four months without company had made her desperate for someone to talk to.

_He might even have news of the Shire,_ she thought hopefully, though in her heart she doubted it, as he was most certainly not a Halfling. Taking a closer look at him, she decided that he must have been a Gondorian: He was definitely not Rohirric, and was too well dressed to be a man of any of the lesser settlements. He could have been from Dol Amroth, a seaside city further south than she cared to imagine, but that hardly seemed likely.

The man was growing closer to her by the second, and Gúthwyn saw that for all of his weariness, he was moving swiftly. He must have traveled far and long, she decided, maybe even further than she had. And often.

"Well, stranger, let us see what you are like," she muttered. Éofealu turned his dark eyes on her. "I will be getting on you soon," she told him. It was better to face these sort of things from a perch upon a horse, especially when the opposition was on foot.

But for now she retreated further behind the rocks, ever so often checking the man's progress. He would reach her in about seven minutes, she deemed, and leaned against the rocks to wait.

It became clear that she had underestimated him, as he was upon her within five minutes. He trode silently, not even sighing or muttering to himself about whether he was lost or not, or where to go next. _The Valar know I have done that myself,_ Gúthwyn thought, and suddenly mounted Éofealu.

The man started at her unexpected appearance, as she was now visible over the rocks, and blinked rapidly. She could see now that his eyes were lighter, framed by brown hair that came just short of his shoulders. Yes, definitely Gondorian.

He recovered slightly. "Who are you, and what is your business here?"

She realized that she should have ordered him to halt, and established her dominance immediately, but there was no use dwelling on that now. Nudging Éofealu forward, she made her way closer to him. "I would ask the same of you," she replied, "since you clearly are not from this land."

His facial expression did not change, though she noticed that his hand was resting on the hilt of his sword. "Neither are you," he told her. "This land is uninhabited, and has been for hundreds of years. They say that only servants of the Enemy use it."

Gúthwyn's face hardened—he had hit closer to the mark than she would have liked him to. But she had one advantage: She was a woman. "I am not a servant of the Enemy," she said haughtily, injecting a more feminine tone into her voice.

"And yet you robe yourself all in black," he said, though he sounded less sure of himself now that he knew her gender, "and ride upon a black horse, two things which have long been associated with evil from the East."

He was right, but she was not going to reveal herself to him. Hastily, she concocted a tale that was only partly false. "I am from Rohan," she told him, coming a little closer. His grip on the sword tightened. "You need not draw your sword, for our lands are united, as you no doubt are aware of. Théoden has sent me around the mountains to gather tidings in these dark times."

The man did not seem to know what to make of her. "I mean no offense to you," he began, "but why would Théoden send a woman to scout the lands? This is the first I have heard of such a thing."

Another snag in verbal sparring with him. Gúthwyn hitched a smile on her face, then realized that it was obscured by the cloak. "No offense is taken," she said lightly, and she really could not blame him for being suspicious. "Most of the men he needs by his side, as we have been suffering invasions from the Uruk-hai." She made that part up, thinking bitterly that it was probably true—especially with Saruman's servants patrolling the Isen.

"Then why would he have a woman scouting this territory, when in order to reach this place one would need to pass through the Gap of Rohan, where most of the Uruk-hai have been of late?"

This man was certainly clever, and more than a little wary of her. "I volunteered for the job," she answered. "I have no family, nor do I fear the evil creatures. It is only my wish to serve my king, and do what I may for my people."

Too late she realized that 'my people' was something only royalty would say, but the man did not notice the discrepancy. He stood before her, shifting slightly on his feet, looking as though he were wondering what to ask next.

"I am sorry," she said, in another attempt to win him over. "We have not properly introduced ourselves. My name is Gúthwyn." Dismounting, the daughter of Éomund lowered the hood of her cloak and held out a hand.

He removed his own from the hilt of his sword and took hers, shaking it briefly. "I am Borogor of Gondor," he replied.

Gúthwyn's heart froze; blood rushed into her head. "W-what did you say?" she stammered.

He looked at her curiously. "Boromir, son of Lord Denethor, the Steward of Gondor."

She exhaled slowly. "Sorry," she apologized once more. "I thought I heard… well, it is nothing." Yet when she glanced down at her hands, they were trembling furiously.

Not wanting to admit to herself how much she had been shaken by a simple mishearing, Gúthwyn asked Boromir, "What are you doing here?"

"I seek the answer to a riddle," he told her, and her eyes narrowed.

"A riddle?"

He nodded. "We, too, are troubled by the Enemy—more so, I deem, than you are. It is thought that the riddle holds the key to all of this."

Boromir was clearly not willing to share anything about the riddle, at any rate not until he knew her better. "Where are you headed?" she asked him.

"To Rivendell," he answered. "My father hopes that the Lord Elrond will be able to help us."

Lord Elrond sounded vaguely familiar, but she could not quite place the name. "Lord Elrond?" she questioned.

"You do not know of him?" Boromir's face turned incredulous. "He is a wise Elven lord, who fought as a herald to Gil-Galad in the Last Alliance."

Gúthwyn stiffened at the mention of Elves. After Haldor, she had no desire to go within a hundred leagues of another. "That is nice," she said tightly, and made to take the reins of Éofealu. Now she would have to rechart her course so that it did not bring her anywhere near Rivendell.

"Wait," Boromir said. She turned back to him. "You should come with me."

"Oh, no, really—"

"I mean it," he cut her off. "If news is what you search for, Lord Elrond will certainly tell you all you need to know. His people receive tidings from all over, and have ways of getting them that we do not. They are even aware of what is happening on the western shores of Middle-earth."

Gúthwyn had been shaking her head as he spoke, but suddenly she paused. "All the way to the western shores?" she asked.

"I do not doubt it."

Now it was her turn to shift on her feet. A cold chill was coming over her at the very thought of an Elven city, but if Lord Elrond was so knowledgeable, he might even have news of where the Shire was. Such information would lead her right to the Ring, which in turn…

Hammel and Haiweth's faces flashed before her as she muttered, "Alright."

"Excellent!" Boromir exclaimed, and she smiled weakly at him before remembering that her mouth was obscured by the thin black scarf. "I have journeyed long and hard, but to find company lightens my heart."

She could not help but like this man, especially as he spoke so courteously—nor could she detect any trace of a lie upon him. "How long have you been traveling?"

"Since early July," he said. "Yourself?"

It most certainly did not take four months to get from Rohan to Hollin. "I left Edoras last month," she lied. "You must be a swift walker, to come all that distance on foot."

He winced, looking a little sheepish. "I had a horse, until I lost the poor creature at Tharbad. Since then I have continued without."

Nodding, Gúthwyn absorbed it all in. "It strikes me as odd, Boromir, that your father sent you in the first place. You think it strange that Théoden sent a woman to scout the lands, yet I do not understand why the Steward of Gondor would send his heir into the wilderness in such dangerous times."

Boromir smiled. "I suppose I deserve that," he replied. "My younger brother asked to go, but I would have none of it. He already has enough to worry about, and I could not stand the idea of him journeying alone through Middle-earth. My father was not happy about my going, but I wore him down."

"Then this is, indeed, a chance meeting," Gúthwyn said. "Yet I am all the gladder for it. The last time I spoke with someone was just before I left."

He inclined his head. "Then I am delighted to be of service."

A faint grin came to her face, but then disappeared as she thought of what lay ahead. "How far are we from Rivendell?"

"My guess is about a week," he answered, and she turned pale.

"That close?"

"Yes—are you feeling ill?"

She backed away from him, turning to Éofealu and petting the horse to mask her terror. "I-I am f-fine," she stuttered. "It has b-been a l-long week." _Calm down!_ she yelled at herself. _You are pathetic! Falling apart at the _mention_ of Elves!_

In, out. Gúthwyn took a deep breath, then looked back at Boromir. "My apologies," she said, plastering a smile on her face, forgetting once more that it was covered by the scarf. "Do you want to put your pack on Éofealu?" She patted the horse. "I will walk with you, so you may lighten your burden."

He thanked her, going up to Éofealu and securing his bag onto the mare. His shield he elected to keep slung on his back, a sentiment that Gúthwyn shared: Despite having seen no one besides Boromir for months, she had her sword at her side at all times, along with her bow and quiver.

"Oh, one more thing," she said to the Gondorian. "Would you be able to lead? I am afraid that I am horrible at directions—much time have I wasted, wandering lost among this land. I have a map, but it seems to be doing more harm than good."

"Do not worry," Boromir replied. "My horse may be gone, yet I know exactly where I am going.

"Good," Gúthwyn said. "Very good."

_Hammel, Haiweth, I am one step closer.

* * *

_

The night air was still, accompanied by a thick silence. Not even a bird trilled into the sky as a cold wind blew over the rocky landscape from the mountains. As a matter of fact, Gúthwyn was the sole being awake for miles—or, at least, she assumed so. Her harried footprints were the only noises that could be heard.

She was pacing back and forth, restlessly, completely incapable of falling asleep. Tonight was the last night she had until entering a realm of Elves: Boromir had said that, if they arose before the sun's appearance, they would arrive at Rivendell in the grey hours of the morning. At the moment he was sleeping a few yards from her, untroubled at the prospect of meeting the Elves.

Yet this was precisely why she could not simply close her eyes and let a blissful unconsciousness claim her. The moment she had laid her head on her pallet, she had known that no rest would come to her tonight. Memories of everything Haldor had done to her were attacking her mind, cruelly and mercilessly, until she was shaking in terror and dread from the ghosts of her past.

No matter how many times Gúthwyn swiveled around to pace in another direction, horrible recollections still dogged her footsteps. She was thinking of the first time he had forced himself on her—if only she had not been so _stupid_, so _blind_!—and her stomach was feeling sick, nausea welling up powerfully within it. His hands were everywhere… tugging at her pants, spreading her legs effortlessly apart… and his mouth, always whispering, always saying those things…

As she whirled around, trying to shake off the memory, there was a movement in the corner of her eye. Boromir had sat up, rubbing his face and yawning.

"Is everything alright?" he asked concernedly, catching sight of her distressed form pacing across the ground.

She nodded tersely, but the next instant clutched at her stomach as a near unbearable wave of queasiness washed over her.

"Are you sure?" he pressed, sounding genuinely worried.

"Fine," Gúthwyn grunted, then lunged for the cover of a large boulder. She leaned over it and vomited her entire dinner, meager though it was, onto the rocky ground.

Footsteps sounded behind her. Boromir appeared. "Did you catch something?" he asked. They had only been traveling together for a week, but already a bond of some sorts had grown between them. It was strange: Neither of them spoke much, yet they respected the silence and even welcomed it. No pauses in conversation were awkward or uncomfortable.

She sighed. "I am a little nervous," she confessed, spitting out the last flecks of bile and stepping away from the rock. As she turned to face Boromir, he looked shocked.

"Nervous?" he repeated, absolutely mystified. "Whatever for?"

"I have never met an Elf before," she lied weakly. Her stomach churned.

"That is nothing to get sick over," Boromir said, a puzzled expression still on his face. "They are supposed to be the fair folk, more beautiful than any other creatures that walk this earth"—she could believe that, having fallen head over heels in love with Haldor the instant she laid eyes on him—"and the wisest as well, as they have seen far more than we have."

She glanced at him, and he gave a small grin. "Yet us humans, I deem," he said, "are no less valorous or strong of body than they. And those are the qualities that are needed in these times, when men must put aside the harp in favor of the sword."

Gúthwyn nodded. "Women, as well."

"In the land of Rohan, perhaps, but already my father has made plans for the women and children to leave the city, should Sauron's armies march on us."

He did not mean the remark as an insult, and Gúthwyn knew not to take it as one.

"Well, I am going to turn in for a few more hours," Boromir spoke up. "Try to get some sleep as well—and do not worry about tomorrow."

She promised him that she would do her best, but long after he had fallen asleep she was still awake, leaning restlessly against the boulder.

_Remember, I am doing this for Hammel and Haiweth,_ she told herself sternly. _Being afraid will not help them at all._

Yet she could not stop her stomach from forming knots, just as she could not prevent the memories from taking her prisoner.


	55. The Council of Elrond

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Three:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Three**

Gúthwyn swallowed hard. "Here we are," Boromir said. They were standing at the top of a ridge, looking down into the valley in which Rivendell lay. The Last Homely House, or so it was also known as. It was a pity: If it had not been filled with Elves, she thought she might have liked it. There were at least two great halls that she could see, but the strange thing about the place (which seemed to have been built around the wildlife, rather than over it) was that everything was so open. Many of the rooms had enormous windows that let in the morning's sunlight, as well as the wholesome fall air.

"How are we going to get down there?" she asked, a foolish part of her hoping that there was no way down. The valley was more like a break in the series of tumbled ravines and endless rocks. Since before the sun had risen, she and Boromir had picked their way across this landscape, despite his sense of direction nearly getting lost a few times. The going was tough for Éofealu, and she felt bad for the horse, but there was nothing she could do.

Boromir pointed out a small path marked with white stones that had sprung up, almost unnoticed, between two large boulders. "I had been hoping to find something like that," he said. "I can see it leading all the way down to the bridge."

She looked and, sure enough, there the rest of it was. "I suppose we should be going, then," she sighed, repressing the urge to run as far away from the place as she possibly could.

For the next quarter of an hour, they carefully made their way down the path towards the bridge, impeded somewhat by Éofealu. Gúthwyn did not mind this, being in fact very grateful for anything that delayed her arrival in an Elven land.

They were almost at the bridge when, from amongst the oak trees on their left, there came a voice. "Halt!" it called.

Stopping, they watched as there was a rustle of branches. Gúthwyn's entire body was trembling. _Do _not _get sick,_ she ordered herself. _Stay under control. Breathe!_

Yet she froze when an Elf stepped out before them. He was clad in a robe of green and brown, used to blend him in against the trees as he watched all those who tried to enter Rivendell. A bow was slung on his back, and a sword hung on his belt; neither was being reached for, but she did not doubt that he would not hesitate to use them. Her heart slowed the tiniest bit when she saw that he had dark hair rather than golden, then began racing even faster when he moved closer.

"Who might you travelers be, and why have you come here?"

Boromir gave a small bow, even though he outranked the Elf. "My name is Boromir of Gondor," he said. "I wish to seek advice from the Lord Elrond, as I expect many do in these dark times."

Small creases appeared on the Elf's forehead. "And what about yourself?" he asked, turning to Gúthwyn. "Are you his sister?"

For a moment, she could not breathe. "I-I…" she stuttered, instinctively taking a step backward. _Think!_ she screamed at herself.

The Elf looked at her, puzzled. "Is everything alright?"

"N-n-no, I just…" Gúthwyn stopped, then took several deep breaths, closing her eyes and counting to ten before she spoke once more. "I am sorry," she said. "I felt faint for a moment."

Boromir looked at her, but said nothing.

"I am not Boromir's sister," she continued, still concentrating on breathing. "Yet I have been traveling with him for about a week, as we met by chance in Hollin."

"What were you doing in Hollin?" the Elf inquired.

More lies. Gúthwyn straightened, preparing to spill them. "Théoden, the king of Rohan, has sent me forth in search of tidings. It is my hope that Lord Elrond can aid my quest."

"Perhaps I am overcautious, but you do not seem like you are from Rohan," the Elf replied. "For one thing, you cloak yourself in black as servants of the Enemy do, and even so I can see your hair—it is dark, whereas Théoden's people have golden hair."

Gúthwyn could not say that her locks were from her grandmother, Morwen of Lossarnach, which would immediately connect her to royalty, so she settled for a few sentences in Rohirric. "Yet I am most certainly from the Mark, though my looks are not so. This cloak I wear out of habit, and the scarves for material reasons."

Neither Boromir nor the Elf understood what she had said, but the Elf nodded. "Forgive me for questioning you," he spoke, inclining his head apologetically. "Though as Boromir said, the times are dark. We can no longer let strangers walk willfully into Rivendell." Then he paused, looking at her once more. "You speak the tongue fluently," he continued, "but I still wonder at the cloak. Why conceal yourself if your purpose is honest?"

"A habit," Gúthwyn explained, translating what she had told him from Rohirric to the Common Tongue. Ever since her birth, she had been speaking the two languages interchangeably, as Théoden wished for her, Éowyn, Éomer, and Théodred to be able to converse eloquently enough with visitors. "The scarves I wear for material reasons."

"Material reasons?" the Elf repeated.

She nodded. "My face is disfigured," she said quietly. "I find things easier to conceal it."

There was some truth in that. None of the men in Mordor had ever commented on the hideous scar, but she had always seen them looking askance at it, usually snickering afterwards. They would not think twice about pushing her against a rock and having their way with her, as Lumren had demonstrated all too well, but they had never considered her a thing of beauty. She was not, but sometimes it hurt that they did not see past her looks.

"…your face," the Elf was saying. Gúthwyn started.

"I am sorry; what was that?"

He spoke again. "Disfigurement or not, I would have you remove both your hood and scarves so that I may look upon your face. Lord Elrond has said that no one is to enter Rivendell if there is any doubt of their purpose, and masked strangers draw exceptional suspicion."

"Is this really necessary?" she asked, taking another step away from him.

"We cannot afford to take risks, my lady," he said politely, but she noticed that his hand was moving closer to his sword.

Gúthwyn dispensed with the niceties. "I am not a lady," she snapped, then turned away from Boromir so he, at least, did not see the monstrosity that was her face. Lowering her hood, she first took off the scarf around her eyes. Sometimes she did not even bother with this one, but it was useful if she did not want anyone to read her expression. She could see well enough through it, as the fabric was not thick at all, but she knew it had deterred Boromir from guessing her mood on more than one occasion.

At last she removed the scarf around her mouth. The Elf's eyes widened almost imperceptibly.

"There, are you happy?" she snarled, feeling both angry and humiliated. Her face was certainly burning.

He nodded, having no words, and she quickly wrapped the scarves back around her head and raised the hood of her cloak.

The Elf stepped aside. "Welcome to Rivendell," he said, gesturing towards the bridge.

When they reached the Last Homely House, Boromir casting curious glances at Gúthwyn ever so often, another Elf was there to greet them. It seemed that word of their coming had gone before them. This time Gúthwyn jumped backwards in terror; she stumbled into the Gondorian and blushed furiously.

"Sorry," she whispered in apology.

"That is alright," he replied, then turned towards the Elf. "Greetings."

"Welcome," the Elf said, bowing his head. "You have arrived just in time—a stroke of luck, indeed!"

"Just in time for what?" Boromir asked curiously.

The Elf gave them a keen look. "The two of you are not the only ones who have turned up, seeking for advice from Lord Elrond. Delegations of Elves from Mirkwood and the Grey Havens have arrived, as well as some Dwarves of Erebor and even Halflings from the Shire."

Gúthwyn felt her mouth drop open in shock. "H-Halflings?" she repeated, hardly daring to believe that she had heard him correctly.

"Yes," the Elf said. "Such as I have never seen before. It was a strange fate that brought them here; though what it is, I do not know, and I expect we will find out at the council."

"The council?" Boromir looked confused as well. Yet Gúthwyn barely heard him. _Halflings in Rivendell!_ she thought triumphantly. _One of them will surely know Baggins—or at the least be able to tell me where their land lies._ She could already see Hammel and Haiweth before her.

"…has summoned us all to one, as it seems to be too much of a coincidence that we have all come here at this time. Gandalf the Grey even turned up a week ago."

"Gandalf?" Boromir asked. "The one who goes by Mithrandir in Gondor?"

"The very same," the Elf replied.

An impressed look came over Boromir's face. "I remember him," he said. "My hopes of advice are now lifted."

"As they should be."

Just then, a clear bell echoed across the grounds. The Elf glanced towards the Last Homely House. "We must be swift! That is the bell for the council. Leave your horse here; he can feed on the grass until he is taken to the stables. Your things will be brought to your own rooms."

"Thank you very much," Boromir said. Gúthwyn did not respond.

"Good bye, Éofealu," she whispered to the horse instead, patting him on the mane. He whinnied softly.

The Elf then turned and began leading them to the sprawling house. They followed him onto a porch, and then inside to a long hallway. Two grand doors were thrown open on either side, and looking into one of them Gúthwyn saw a great fireplace that was burning merrily, even though no one was in the hall.

"This place is amazing," Boromir marveled as they moved further down the hallway. Gúthwyn might have shared his sentiments if she were not so terrified of Elves appearing at any second.

Their guide led them through the rest of the hall, which at the end opened onto another porch. Chairs had been arranged around the edges, as though Elrond was entertaining several guests, but the atmosphere could not have been less festive. Those upon the porch were seated in silence, all trying not to stare at any one place for too long. Boromir and Gúthwyn now stood before them.

Eyes fell on the two of them, but were just as quickly averted. Gúthwyn quickly scanned the crowd. There was a larger, throne-like chair… the Lord Elrond. He was tall and stately, with an aura of wisdom and authority about him. A silver circlet was upon his dark head, and his eyes were gazing keenly at the newcomers. Relieved that he could not see her own face, for she recognized immediately that he was more powerful than he even appeared, she turned her gaze to the other members of the council.

There were two more Elves on either side of Lord Elrond, who were probably relatives—definitely brothers, for they looked exactly alike. There was a Man sitting next to them, dressed in worn garments. She passed him over, her eyes flicking around the rest of the semi-circle. Men, Dwarves, Elves…

Suddenly she froze. Blinked, rapidly, to make sure she was seeing things… she _had_ to be seeing things, he could not possibly be here…

Haldor was sitting serenely amongst the Elves, his expression calm and relaxed. He had somehow gotten a brown traveling cloak and nicer boots, but it was undoubtedly him. Gúthwyn's heart had leapt into her throat, hammering relentlessly. To her horror, she felt tears coming to her eyes. _How had he gotten here?_

"Gúthwyn," Boromir muttered, glancing at her. "Come on."

She could not move, breathe, or even think. Haldor was _here_, here in _Rivendell, _the last place where she had expected him to be… What was he doing here? Horrible fears twisted her stomach. Had he been following her all this time? Had he been watching her while she slept? Had he even touched her as she lay, unaware, naïvely thinking herself safe during the dark nights in Hollin?

At the thought, she swayed, and nearly stumbled into Boromir.

"Gúthwyn, what on Middle-earth—?" he asked, then followed her gaze to Haldor. "Do you know him?"

"I should think not," the Elf whispered. "That is the prince of Mirkwood: Legolas, son of Thranduil."

She shook her head, and was about to correct him when Haldor glanced over. Yes, that was definitely him… the piercing blue eyes, pinning her down relentlessly, the lips playing in a small smile…

Then he looked away. Gúthwyn realized she had been holding her breath, and exhaled. Why was he pretending not to know her?

"Gúthwyn, the others are waiting to start," Boromir said, interrupting her terrified thoughts.

Dazed, she allowed him to lead her to the two remaining places, taking a seat between the Men and—much to her consternation—the Elves. A few of the council members gave her quick, questioning looks; she realized that she must have appeared rather strange, as she was the only one who had a masked face. She supposed the black cloak did not help matters.

Carefully and slowly, she leaned forward a few inches in her chair and took a swift glimpse at Haldor. It could not have been anyone other than him. Why had the Elf introduced him as Legolas? Had Haldor spoke to him beforehand? How many of the other Elves knew about this? Or had they all been fooled, even Lord Elrond?

The second she got out of this place, she was going to run for the nearest secluded area and throw up all of this week's meals. Placing her hand surreptitiously over her stomach, she settled back into the chair, glancing weakly at Lord Elrond. A twinge of nervousness came over her as she saw him watching her. She tried to meet his gaze, not too brazenly so as to seem disrespectful, but not guiltily either.

At length he stood up. For a wild moment, she thought he was going to announce her a servant of the Enemy and throw her out, but then she realized that there was no way he could have known that.

"Strangers from distant lands," he spoke instead, turning to the rest of the council, "friends of old. You have been summoned here to answer the threat of Mordor. Middle-earth stands upon the brink of destruction."

_Destruction?_ she wondered, thinking that Lord Elrond was exaggerating. These people had all gotten here safely, had they not? Even she, a servant of the Enemy, had passed over the lands without hindrance.

"…the Ring, Frodo Baggins."

At the mention of both a ring and Baggins, she straightened in surprise, then looked over to where someone was standing. Her breath caught in her throat: _This_ was the Halfling! She had been brought here by chance, facing a long and difficult journey out west, and yet here he was, less than fifteen feet away from her! Surely the Valar were on her side.

The Halfling looked as though he did not wish to be there. He was fiddling with something in his hand as he approached a small pedestal in the center of the porch. Gúthwyn was surprised that she had not seen him beforehand, but then she remembered that she had stopped surveying the council members when she had gotten to Haldor. Taking a glance to where he had arisen from, she saw a gnarled old man in grey robes, clutching a wooden staff—he could not have been anything other than Gandalf the Grey. _A wizard?_ she guessed, recalling Saruman's own staff.

Baggins took another step forward, and she squinted in amazement at his feet. They were several sizes bigger than hers, though he only came up to her chest. Furthermore, they were coated with a thick layer of hair. The rest of his garments were less strange, though their neatness and the materials made her think that he must have been important among his people.

Gúthwyn and all of the others watched as the Halfling extended a hand over the pedestal, and placed something small, round, and golden upon it. This time, she was not alone in leaning forward to examine the object—the ring. _So this is what Sauron wants me to retrieve for him so desperately,_ she thought in bafflement. It was hardly remarkable; she could bet that there were hundreds of golden bands like it. What was so special about this tiny thing?

"The Doom of Men," she heard someone whisper, and she almost felt inclined to laugh. _This_ piece of jewelry, a bringer of ruin and fire?

Then she looked up in surprise. Boromir had gotten to his feet, and was drawing closer to the ring. "In a dream," he began, and she focused her eyes on him, hoping that he might say more about his mysterious riddle, "I saw the Eastern sky grow dark… but in the West, a pale light lingered. A voice was crying: 'Your doom is near at hand. Isildur's Bane is found.'"

He was almost at the ring now, and for a wild moment Gúthwyn thought he was going to take it and run off. That is what she would have done, had she not been in the company of Lord Elrond, possible wizard Gandalf the Grey, and Haldor. She snuck another glance over at the Elf. His eyes were narrowed as he watched Boromir.

At that moment, Elrond leapt to his feet. "Boromir!" he cried, and the Gondorian stopped. Gandalf had also gotten to his feet. Words poured from the old man's mouth that she immediately recognized to be the Black Speech. She stared in shock at him, wondering how he had learned it. The foulness of the language no longer bothered her, but she had never understood more than a few words of it.

The rest of the council looked astounded—even fearful—at Gandalf's actions. Some of them put their faces in their hands as he spoke, and others appeared to have unexpectedly felt sick.

_Is it my imagination, or is the sky darkening?_ Gúthwyn thought suddenly, looking up towards the heavens. It was not her imagination; everything was growing blacker, the darkness centered directly in Gandalf as he finished his incantation. She was aware of herself clenching the armrests of her seat as he did so.

Gandalf fell silent, and slowly the air returned to normal. Lord Elrond sternly addressed him. "Never before has any voice uttered the words of that tongue here in Imladris."

Imladris—an Elvish name for the place?

"I do not ask your pardon, Lord Elrond," Gandalf replied, glancing at the rest of the council, "for the Black Speech of Mordor may yet be heard in every corner of the West!"

She highly doubted that, as she had been in Mordor for three years, and had picked up next to nothing of the language.

"The Ring is altogether evil!" Gandalf continued, and then sat down.

Gúthwyn wondered if she was missing something. Those at the council viewed the ring as something to be treated with the greatest caution, even feared. And now Gandalf was calling it evil? All Sauron had told her was that he wanted it…

_Use your brains, you fool!_ she told herself. _If it is being searched for by Sauron, it must be evil!_

Boromir, who had remained standing, retorted insistently, "It is a gift! A gift to the foes of Mordor!"

She whole-heartedly agreed with him there, for she herself would use it to purchase Hammel and Haiweth's freedoms.

"Why not use this Ring?" Boromir pressed, now beginning to pace around the porch. "Long has my father, the Steward of Gondor, kept the forces of Mordor at bay. By the blood of _our_ people are _your_ lands kept safe!" Then his eyes widened as with an idea. "Give Gondor the weapon of the Enemy. Let us use it against him!"

"You cannot wield it," someone replied, and everyone turned to look at a Man. Gúthwyn's eyes had flicked past him, as upon first sight he did not command attention. His clothes were worn and stained with travel, and his dark hair fell past his shoulders. Yet Lord Elrond seemed willing to hold his opinion just as highly as he held the others'.

The Man continued with the eyes of the council on him. "None of us can. The One Ring answers to Sauron alone. It has no other master."

Boromir's eyes narrowed. "And what would a Ranger know of this matter?" he countered.

_A Ranger!_ He did not look as though he was from Ithilien, Gúthwyn thought, looking at the man more carefully. He could have passed for Gondorian, but not one of the Rangers of the forest. Were there others, then, that she was unaware about, in different lands of Middle-earth?"

Not too far from her, someone else got to their feet. She turned to face them, and then felt her heart stop.

Haldor was moving towards Boromir. "This is no mere Ranger," he said fiercely. "He is Aragorn, son of Arathorn. You owe him your allegiance."

_What on Middle-earth is going on?_ Gúthwyn wondered. She felt completely lost. Boromir was staring at the Ranger in shock, as well as some of the other council members, but what was so significant about this Aragorn? And how had Haldor known about him?

"Aragorn?" Boromir repeated, almost disbelievingly. His eyes swept over the man's dirty boots. "This… is Isildur's heir?"

"And heir to the throne of Gondor," Haldor replied firmly, his muscles taut underneath the brown cloak.

Like the Halfling, who was now watching him open-mouthed, Aragorn did not seem to wish the attention of others. He raised his hand, and a strange-sounding language fell from his mouth. Gúthwyn caught "Legolas" amongst it. _Legolas again!_ Why were these people so determined to play along? Or had they _all_ been deceived?

Haldor looked at Aragorn, then settled back in his seat. Not once did he glance at Gúthwyn, the woman he had beaten and raped for three years. She felt totally confused and out of the loop.

"Gondor has no king," Boromir muttered as he went to sit back down next to her. "Gondor needs no king."

_King?_ Gúthwyn wanted desperately to shake everyone and demand to know what was going on.

Now Gandalf spoke. "Aragorn is right. We cannot use it."

"You have only one choice," Lord Elrond told the council. "The Ring must be destroyed."

At the mention of harm coming to Hammel and Haiweth's ticket of freedom, Gúthwyn straightened and narrowed her eyes. _No one is destroying this ring without my say,_ she vowed.

One of the Dwarves got to his feet. "What are we waiting for?" he growled, his fiery red beard quivering. With a sudden roar, he raised his axe and leapt towards the pedestal. Gúthwyn's heart froze as he brought the weapon down upon it.

There was a sudden blinding flash of pain, searing through her head and making her press a gloved hand upon it. The Mark of Sauron burned, and for an instant she thought she saw the Eye, staring at her. Yet just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished. Mutterings raced through the council: The Dwarf's axe lay in shattered ruins upon the ground, but the ring—she felt nearly giddy with relief—had not been harmed at all.

"The Ring cannot be destroyed, Gimli, son of Glóin," Lord Elrond spoke sternly, "by any craft that we here possess."

_Thank the Valar for that,_ Gúthwyn thought. Her heart was still recovering from Gimli's attempt to break it.

"The Ring was made in the fires of Mount Doom," the Elven lord continued, glancing around the circle. Once more his eyes fell upon her. "Only there can it be unmade."

An uneasy silence lay over the group, all hanging onto his every word, wondering what he was going to say next.

"It must be taken deep into Mordor and cast into the fiery chasm from whence it came. One of you must do this."

Not a sound was heard. Gúthwyn's mouth opened slightly. Boromir had said that Elves were wise creatures, but this one was proposing to do the impossible! No one could stroll into Mordor and destroy something that Sauron was searching relentlessly for—least of all at Mount Doom, which was under the unblinking Eye's watch day and night.

Boromir clearly was of like opinion. "One does not simply walk into Mordor," he said. "Its Black Gates are guarded by more than just Orcs. There is evil there that does not sleep."

She could attest to that, having been there herself, but somehow she doubted that the members of the council would take kindly to the details of her past.

"And the Great Eye," Boromir pressed on, "is ever watchful. It is a barren wasteland. Riddled with fire… and ash… and dust." He paused after each word, to let their meanings sink in. "Not with ten thousand men could you do this. It is folly."

"He is right," Gúthwyn spoke.

Haldor leapt to his feet, and she flinched. "Have you heard nothing Lord Elrond has said? The Ring must be destroyed!" he exclaimed, his fists clenched and an angry expression on his face.

Gimli the Dwarf jumped up as well, but the effect was far less impressive, as he came only to the middle of Haldor's torso. "And I suppose you think you are the one to do it!"

Now Boromir got to his feet. She glanced at the others. Baggins looked nervous; next to him, Gandalf the Grey was shaking his head in dissent. Lord Elrond and Aragorn wore similar expressions of impatience on their faces. "And if we fail, what then?" the Gondorian demanded, moving towards Haldor and Gimli. "What happens when Sauron takes back what is his?"

"I will be dead before I see the Ring in the hands of an Elf!" Gimli insisted, completely ignoring Boromir.

Chaos erupted. The Elven delegates were immediately upon the Dwarf, held back only by Haldor's outspread arms. Not letting their comrade stand alone, the rest of the Dwarves stood up as well, swiftly followed by the Men. What had been a solemn council a moment ago was now turned into a ferocious arguing match, in which everyone seemed so determined to shout their own opinion that they were deaf to those of others. Even Gandalf was amongst them, waving his staff at Boromir and yelling words that were disappearing into the commotion.

Gúthwyn remained in her seat, not wishing to have anything to do with this, only wanting the council to make up their mind so she could somehow steal the Ring and get back to Mordor. Yet how to do it? The Halfling was clearly cautious in his own right—like her, he was still sitting down, not taking any risks by joining the fray. Furthermore, there was the presence of Lord Elrond, along with Gandalf… whom _had_ to be a wizard.

Then she looked at Haldor. Perhaps he could help her. But why would Sauron send him after her, and not with her, if that was his purpose? And why would Sauron even send him in the first place, if the Elf was the only one who trained the troops? Had he really found a second-in-command that quickly? And why, why, _why_ was he ignoring her?

_He probably does not wish to betray himself,_ she decided, though the whole business was complicated and confusing.

Suddenly, there was silence. Gúthwyn half-rose out of her seat, trying to see what the reason was. The Halfling had stood, and evidently shouted something.

"I will take the Ring to Mordor," he said, looking around warily at the others. Then he sighed. "Though, I do not know the way."

It was too perfect. The Halfling, going to Mordor alone, to try and throw this Ring into Mount Doom. A Halfling who had most likely never left the comfort of the Shire before now, who would get lost within a day or two on the road, who would then be perfect for her to take the Ring from. She might not even have to kill him to get the job done—maybe if she waited long enough, he would grow weary of traveling and not fight her back.

Yet then Gandalf spoke, the smile on his face matching Gúthwyn's own. "I will help you bear this burden, Frodo Baggins," he said, moving over to where the Halfling stood and placing his hands on his shoulders, "so long as it is yours to bear."

_No!_ Gúthwyn thought, clutching the armrests so tightly that, if she had not been wearing gloves, she would have seen white knuckles. A Halfling she could easily overcome, but not so much a wizard. In fact, if she went by Saruman's standards, she would be positively helpless against him.

To make matters even more disparaging, Aragorn the Ranger now stood and went to kneel before Baggins. "You have my sword," he said simply and earnestly.

Things could not possibly get any worse—that is, not until Haldor turned towards the Halfling. "And you have my bow," he added, standing behind Frodo.

Gúthwyn felt her world falling apart around her. Things had seemed so simple just seconds ago! But now a host of powerful enemies had risen to keep her from getting this stupid Ring, this worthless piece of jewelry that stood between her and the freedom of the children. She could not let this happen! She had to think!

At that moment, Gimli joined the group, glancing distrustfully up at Haldor, and she realized that he must have pledged his services while she was panicking. There were now four formidable opponents standing against her.

_No, Boromir, not you as well,_ she thought in despair as the Gondorian got to his feet. He started making his way slowly towards the group. "You carry the fates of us all, little one," he murmured. "If it is the will of the council, then Gondor will see it done."

An unexpected shout came from the bushes, just outside of the porch. "Hey!"

Everyone turned around to see—Gúthwyn's eyes widened in surprise—another Halfling, his hair lighter than Frodo's dark locks, and his frame thicker, standing up and running next to the Ringbearer. "Mr. Frodo's not going anywhere without me!"

_Who is this?_ she wondered in bewilderment.

"No; indeed," Elrond replied, looking rather amused in spite of himself, "it is hardly possible to separate you even when he is invited to a secret council and you are not."

Frodo seemed pleased to have his friend beside him, even if it was to go into dreadful peril.

"Oi!" This time the shout was from behind them all, having its source in two _more_ Halflings that were scampering down the stairs connecting the porch to the rest of the Last Homely House. They must have been hiding there the entire time, listening along with the second Halfling to business conducted by their elders. "We're coming too!" One of them exclaimed as they raced towards the group gathered around Frodo. "You'd have to send us home in a sack to stop us!"

For an instant, the expression on Elrond's face suggested that he would like to do just that, but then he visibly relented as the youngest-looking said:

"Anyway, you need people of intelligence for this sort of mission… quest… thing." He grinned proudly up at the Elven lord, and Gúthwyn found herself almost slightly amused.

"Well, that rules you out, Pip," his companion muttered. Pip nodded happily, then sobered when he figured out what had been meant.

Gúthwyn's stomach was knotting as she counted the figures who had sworn to protect Frodo Baggins of the Shire. Nine. The first row, the Halflings, she would have had no trouble defeating, but the second row… her hands were trembling.

"Nine companions," Elrond was saying, his eyes moving over the group in satisfaction. "So be it. You shall be the Fellowship of the Ring."

Suddenly an idea came to Gúthwyn, so brilliant and risky at the same time that she could not believe she had come up with it. "My Lord Elrond," she called before she could lose the nerve. As everyone turned to watch her, she got to her feet.

"Gúthwyn of Rohan, correct?" Elrond asked, and she blinked, not realizing that he had known her name.

"Yes," she confirmed, recovering. "I wish to beg a favor of you, and the Fellowship."

Elrond exchanged a glance with Aragorn, yet she could not detect any annoyance or distrust in their eyes. "Go on," Elrond bade her.

She prepared herself to tell the biggest lie she had yet uttered thus far. "My lord, to get to the other side of the Misty Mountains, I passed through the Gap of Rohan and forded the Isen, which was swarming with Orcs and Uruk-hai."

The Elven lord nodded. "And the traitorous wizard Saruman."

A clamorous murmur rose through the council, then died down when Elrond raised his hand.

"A-A traitor, my lord?" Gúthwyn stuttered, pretending she had not known this for years. Her heart was racing with deception.

"It is now known to us that Saruman has long been breeding this army of creatures that have been accosting wayward travelers of late. Gandalf himself was held prisoner by the White Wizard, unable to escape until recently."

At Elrond's words, there was another wave of muttering. Once more, he lifted his hand, and they were quelled. "Yet now is not the time to lament what might have been," he said. "Gúthwyn, continue."

She gave a small bow. "Thank you, my lord. As I was saying, the way was fraught with peril, though I dared not attempt the mountain passes for fear of being trapped by Orcs."

Elrond's face tightened slightly. "Understandable," he replied. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Aragorn watching the Elven lord.

"My lord, in happier times I would not have to worry about the possibility of death while journeying between two lands, but now that is not a luxury I have. I fear for the return home, as I do not expect to be so lucky the second time around. Despite all the cautions I took, I was attacked by a small group of Orcs at the Gap of Rohan."

Now it was Boromir's turn to look at her in surprise. This story having been invented about two seconds ago, she had never told him about it.

"I managed to fight them off," Gúthwyn continued, making a note to fabricate an explanation for the Gondorian later, "though I barely escaped with my life. My lord, if I am ambushed a second time… I do not think I will have the strength to resist."

"It is dangerous for anyone to wander through the lands by themselves, no matter how powerful they may be," Lord Elrond told her.

"My lord, I was wondering if I might accompany this group of men, and have the protection of numbers, until they near Rohan."

There was a silence, during which Elrond's gaze shifted to Gandalf. Gúthwyn kept her arms by her sides and tried not to fidget, praying to the Valar that this would work. Of course, she had no intention of remaining with the group until they got even close to Rohan. She would steal the Ring, and slip away into the night before they were even aware of what was happening.

Elrond looked back at her, and she struggled to keep what she thought was an innocent expression in her eyes: Even though they were obscured by the dark scarf, she had a strange feeling that he could see them anyway.

At length, he nodded. "You are garbed in the robes of a Black Rider," he said, "but Lindir tells me that you are no servant of the Enemy."

"Never, my lord," Gúthwyn vowed. "I would die before placing myself under his control."

She lowered the hood of Chalibeth's cloak and removed the top scarf, turning towards the Fellowship so they could look upon half of the face of the woman who had just joined them. The Halflings seemed glad to have her company, as well as Boromir; Gandalf and Gimli did not appear to have one opinion or the other; yet Aragorn's eyes were narrowed slightly. She glanced at Haldor, and saw that he was not sure what to make of her. _You should have known I would do this,_ she told him silently.

At length, Aragorn stepped around the group and came before her. "Welcome," he said, extending his hand.

Gúthwyn shook it. She was now one step closer to freeing Hammel and Haiweth. "Thank you," she replied, though her thanks were for the Valar, who seemed to be smiling down at her. _Thank you so much._


	56. The Warrior, My Brother

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Five:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

All around her was quiet, entombed in the silence of sleep. Not a creature stirred in Rivendell on the night of December twenty-fourth, and Gúthwyn was no exception.

She was sitting perfectly still on a bench, huddled against herself, for the winter air was cool and breezy. Her sword lay upon the ground, having been only recently sheathed.

_Thank the Valar we are leaving this place tomorrow,_ she thought. Rivendell had turned out to be one of the worst locations she had ever been in. Everywhere she turned, Elves were walking or sitting, their eyes looking coldly upon her and then focusing back on their companion. Each flash of golden hair sent her skin crawling in terror, usually accompanied by a rush to the nearest chamber pot.

She had tried to get used to it, and had lasted for a week. It had been nearly two months since then, in which she had hidden herself inside the room provided for her, only emerging at mealtimes. These in themselves were torturous. If they were eating at the same time, members of the Fellowship tended to sit together, in hopes of getting to know each other before the journey. Yet she avoided them like the plague whenever Haldor was sitting there, choosing to skip the feast altogether.

A tremor ran through her body at the thought of Haldor. She could no longer understand his behavior. For almost a month she had not gotten any sleep at night, shaking in terror at the thought of him coming to her and claiming what was his. But he had not approached her once, not even when she had fallen into semi-recluse. Instead he was often found in the company of Elves from Mirkwood, making her wonder if he had known them before coming to Mordor.

Gúthwyn sighed, kicking listlessly at the hilt of her sword and sending it spinning. Tonight—well, by now, this morning—she had been practicing on her own, as she had done every night since her arrival. It kept her from thinking of what Haldor used to do to her, and gave her something to siphon her emotions onto. Yet it was not the same without a partner.

She moaned slightly as Borogor's image floated into her mind. What she would not give to have him by her side, as he had always been, selflessly sacrificing his needs for her own. Guilt tore at her. Why had she not given him anything in return? How had she not realized that he loved her, and that she loved him back just as fiercely? The sparring sessions, his arms wrapped around her, holding hands…

As she had done countless times since she left Mordor, she got to her feet and went to her pack; Borogor's, to be precise. Tenderly opening it, she carefully reached in and pulled out a small book. This was her most prized possession, held even higher than the necklace she wore. She had discovered it about a week out of Mordor, having finally gotten the courage to go through Borogor's things.

In his pack, there had been the usual: Food, water, bandages, a spare dagger. She had thrown out the food, it being the foul meat and no longer edible. The water she had kept, obviously, along with the bandages and dagger. But underneath all of those things was the book that she now held in her hands.

She remembered pausing to run her fingers over the smooth surface, not recalling Borogor ever reading it or showing it to her. When she had opened it, she discovered that it was not a record of the army's fortunes and expenses, as she had expected, nor a diary, as she had hoped, but a collection of poems, all scribbled in childish handwriting upon the parchment.

Her fingers now flicked through Beregil's writing, stopping here and there to read a phrase or two, but all the while knowing which poem she wanted to read. A turn of the page, and there it was. A simple title: "The Warrior."

_His sword glints in the sunlight;  
Twirling, flashing, dancing.  
A whisper in the wind,  
A streak of rushing metal;  
Yet it is not the beauty he seeks to destroy.  
The warrior.  
He sees the good in all things;  
Living, dying, awake, asleep.  
Kind and generous, unassuming and humble,  
Willing to put himself in danger for those he loves;  
Yet it is not in vain.  
My brother._

That was it—just those twelve lines, composed by an eight- or nine-year-old while the other boys wrestled with each other. But they had had an effect on Gúthwyn such as no other written word before. Just reading it caused her eyes to well up in tears; she could feel them desperately clinging to her eyelashes as she wiped them away. Her entire body was hunched over in heartbreak as she silently mourned the loss of Beregil and Borogor. No one deserved to die less than they did. And yet they had, the poet perishing cruelly at the hands of the warrior, and the warrior dying for a cause that was not his own.

_Borogor, I love you, I love you,_ she told him for the thousandth time, staring down at the page. Countless nights had she opened this book, seeking solace in a friend's words and finding bottomless sorrow instead.

Such was her preoccupation, reflecting miserably in the early grey morning about the horrible turns her life had taken, that she did not notice someone approaching her. Nor would she, had she not been looking at them: Their boots made no noise upon the ground, and their coming was unheralded by any other sound.

"Gúthwyn?"

She jumped and glanced up. Then a muffled, wordless panic seized her—Haldor stood above her, his golden hair glinting in the pale morning light. She scrambled backwards in terror, falling off of the bench and landing painfully on the ground.

Her face burned as he leaned down, looking both apologetic and puzzled, offering her his hand. She leapt to her feet instead, backing away from him. "What do you want?" she snarled, folding her arms across her stomach and placing several more feet between them.

"I am sorry," he said, raising his eyebrows slightly. "I did not mean to startle you—"

"Yes, you did," she countered angrily, blinking rapidly as the tears threatened to resurface. "You always do!"

It was destroying her to face the Elf she had made love to after Borogor's death; already the nausea was welling up in her stomach.

"I do not know what you are talking about," Haldor said, looking at her in confusion. "Have we met before?"

Her mouth dropped open at the blatant denial, and a long silence fell, during which she noticed Beregil's book. It was lying directly between them, face down upon the ground.

He saw it as well, and bent to pick it up. Horror engulfed her. "Haldor!" she cried, leaping towards him.

"Haldor?" He straightened, the book in hand, and gave it to her. She snatched it away, clutching it to her chest, and stared at his narrowed eyes. "You must be mistaking me for someone else, for that is not my name."

"Of course it is," she said shortly, feeling cranky and bewildered. Why was he going out of his way to keep up the pretense?

"I am Legolas, son of Thranduil." His voice was firm and… honest.

Gúthwyn's eyes widened. "Y-You are n-not Haldor?" she asked, wrapping her arms even tighter about herself. How could that be possible? She knew, literally, every inch of his body, and there was no difference between Haldor and whoever was before her. Yet now she realized that Haldor would have wasted no time in making her squirm.

"No," he replied politely. "Yet perhaps to humans, all Elves look alike."

"And you act alike, as well," she retorted harshly.

"Have you lived amongst us?" he asked, maintaining a calm façade; in his eyes, however, she could see that he was shocked by her abrasiveness.

Gúthwyn flushed. She had not truly lived amongst the Elves, but what contact she had had with them no one could know. It was too humiliating.

Legolas' blue eyes held hers, but when she said nothing, he changed the subject. "I saw you practicing from afar."

She bristled, taking another step away from him. Shivers ran through her as she thought of him observing her, especially as she had been reading the poem, from the cover of the shadows. "You were _watching_ me?"

"I happened to see you—" Legolas began, but she cut him off.

"What are you doing up at this hour, anyway?"

His reply was courteous, though she knew that he marveled at her rudeness. "I might ask the same of yourself; yet I am an early riser, and the dawn is not far off."

"That is wonderful for you," she snapped. "I hope you enjoyed the show." Her cheeks were burning with embarrassment as she bent down and retrieved Borogor's pack, her sword, and the scarf meant to cover her eyes. She wished sorely that she had not taken it off to practice.

She was walking past Legolas towards a nearby porch, hoping to get away from him as soon as possible, but he caught her arm. His touch was gentle, but she could feel it biting into her like the steel of Haldor's knife. "Have I done something to offend you?" he asked softly.

Fear and dread overwhelmed her, so that for a moment she could not move. "Do not touch me again," she managed at last, spitting out the words venomously and twisting out of his grasp. Reeling from the encounter, she turned and hurried away, pushing herself faster as she imagined his eyes upon her back.

* * *

"Good morning," Boromir said to Gúthwyn as she arrived at the Fellowship's place of departure. It was early in the morning, not more than three hours after her meeting with Legolas, and they were in the area just before the arched gateway leading out of Rivendell. The rest of the Fellowship was gathered already, along with Lord Elrond and other Elves waiting to see them off.

"And a good morning to you," she replied, inclining her head at him. He smiled.

"Have you been hiding out somewhere all these weeks? We have been in the Last Homely House for two months, yet I have seen naught of you except at mealtimes."

Her top scarf was removed, so she smiled stiffly, allowing him to see a lighthearted expression in her eyes—what she thought was one, anyway, as she had not felt lighthearted since that trip to Ithilien. Stolen moments with Borogor that were soon to be her last…

"Our paths simply have not crossed," she answered abruptly, willing herself to not cry. "I have been exploring the place elsewhere, I suppose."

Their conversation was interrupted when Aragorn came over to them. "Are you ready?" he questioned.

They nodded, and he turned to Gúthwyn. "Gúthwyn," he began, "Lord Elrond wishes to know if you have need of armor."

She shook her head. "I prefer not to wear it." Though Haldor had given her some before she left Mordor, she had removed it as soon as the Black Land was out of sight. It now lay at the bottom of her pack.

"As you wish," the Ranger said. His grey eyes flicked over her, and she realized that he had yet to come to a decision regarding her trustworthiness. "The Elves have prepared some things for our journey. Both of you, follow me."

He turned and started leading them to the porch. "Do you live here?" Gúthwyn asked him, wondering at his apparent authority. At first glance, he did not seem impressive at all. Merely another hardened traveler, weary of the road before him yet loath to look behind. His clothes were nothing to marvel at—though today, she saw that he had a small pendant around his neck, glimmering and shining like a winter star.

"I was raised in Imladris," was his answer. She could read nothing in his tone. _This is one Man I will have to be careful around,_ she decided.

Aragorn brought them before a small group of Elves. "My Lady Arwen," he said, bowing.

One of the Elves turned towards him, and Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat, accompanied by a surprising surge of envy. She was utterly gorgeous. Long, raven-colored hair fell down her back, framing grey eyes the hue of sparkling silver. Her skin was fair and ivory in tone, with no flaw or blemish in sight. Gúthwyn's Warg bite prickled unpleasantly, and she suddenly felt all the more awed and overshadowed by this Elven woman before her.

"My lord Aragorn," Arwen replied, and her gaze turned upon Gúthwyn and Boromir. "Boromir of Gondor, and Gúthwyn of Rohan, I am pleased to meet you both."

Boromir gave a deep bow. "The pleasure is mine," he answered. "Fair are the Elves of Rivendell, yet your beauty is surpassed by none."

Arwen smiled at the compliment, standing there in a long robe that accentuated her slender figure perfectly. Gúthwyn remained silent.

"My father, Lord Elrond, wishes me to give you these," the Elven woman spoke, and the Elves on either side of her drew closer. In their arms, they bore jackets and fur-lined cloaks, meant to give them warmth as the winter sunk its teeth further into the lands. "Spare clothes and food are being put upon the horse as we speak."

Thinking she meant Éofealu, Gúthwyn turned in surprise, then saw that the packhorse was unfamiliar. She remembered, also, that she had bid farewell to Éofealu not ten minutes before, telling him to make his way to Edoras. Even if Théoden was there, at least he could rest in a proper stable.

One of the Halflings was holding on tightly to the reins of the new horse; he was the one who had sprung from the bushes at the council. His name, she had learned, was Samwise Gamgee, though his small companions addressed him as Sam. He was a servant of sorts to Frodo Baggins, and certainly acted the part, calling him "Mr. Frodo" relentlessly. The Halfling was also fiercely protective of his master, something she had taken note of.

She looked back at the Elves again, and found herself being presented with the garments. Try as she might not to, she cringed when their hands touched hers. They were gloved, and had been since she left Mordor, as the Mark of Sauron would be a clear giveaway of her position should it be seen.

"I wish you the best of luck on your journey," Arwen told them, but her eyes were upon Aragorn.

"Thank you," both she and Boromir replied.

Aragorn bowed, and when he straightened there was a tender note in his voice that she had not heard before. "Thank you, my lady."

Gúthwyn left after that, Boromir following her; but when she glanced back she saw that Arwen and Aragorn were alone together. They were walking along one of the open hallways, stopping to continue their farewells behind the cover of a large pillar.

"Aragorn is a lucky man," Boromir muttered. She looked at him in surprise.

"Are they married?" A union between an Elf and a Human was something that she had never heard of before, the sole exception being Beren and Lúthien in tales of years long past. There was one more such marriage, she knew, but it was beyond her history skills to remember who the lovers were.

"No," Boromir replied, "but they love each other, even I can see that—and men say I care for my sword more than I do women."

She did not respond; even more jealously of Arwen was swelling within her veins. This woman was the daughter of a powerful lord, with flawless looks and an unmatched wardrobe, along with her pick of any person she wished to take into her heart. Aragorn was clearly smitten with her, try though he might to disguise it; from what Boromir had said, she returned his feelings.

Gúthwyn, on the other hand, had a claim to royalty only through an uncle who had abandoned her to Saruman's servant, a Warg bite disfiguring half of her face, a selection of clothing limited to two changes and two cloaks, and a love who lay dead in Ithilien, never realized until it was too late. None of these things was important except for the last—and why should Arwen, who had probably never experienced the slightest bit of discomfort in her life, get the man she wanted, while Gúthwyn had not even had a chance to tell Borogor that she loved him? Despair had her in such a strong hold that she could not work up the energy to even loathe the Elf for it.

"Gúthwyn?" Boromir's voice met her ears, and she saw that she had stopped moving.

"Sorry," she replied, swallowing the misery and forcing one foot in front of the other. They made their way over to where the rest of the Fellowship had gathered: Gandalf, who was smoking serenely on his pipe, with no apparent concern over their journey; Gimli, standing some way apart from the others and twirling one of his six axes, making sure it was ready for the journey; Legolas, at the sight of whom Gúthwyn felt a tremor of fear run through her, and stubbornly ignored him; Frodo and Sam, who were speaking softly with each other beside the pony; the two other Halflings, Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took—as a rule, called Merry and Pippin—who were munching on some fruit.

"Breakfast still?" she asked them. Earlier in the morning, Elrond had treated them to a large table brimming with all sorts of food you could possibly want. Gúthwyn had thrown up her bread less than ten minutes afterwards, but the Halflings (Hobbits, as they had told her they liked to be called) had certainly indulged themselves, and then some.

"Second breakfast, actually," Pippin corrected her, putting the last of his strawberry into his mouth. "I suppose we won't be getting those for awhile; right, Merry?" He turned to the Hobbit beside him.

"Afraid not, Pip," Merry replied, grimacing.

Gúthwyn felt herself smiling in spite of things. Sometimes they seemed like children: Though Pippin was twenty-eight, and Merry was thirty-six, both nine and seventeen years her senior, they had gay spirits and could often be seen running through the gardens, singing nonsensical songs and laughing loudly. She did not begrudge them their happiness, as it eased her heart to see them finding joy in life.

"Are you two ready for the journey?" she inquired. They both nodded fervently.

"Absolutely, my lady!" Merry replied, who, despite her protests, had addressed her as though she were royalty—she was, in a way, but he certainly did not know that. "Even to defend Frodo to the death, if needs be." His eyes sobered slightly. "Though I hope it will not come to that."

Gúthwyn hoped so, as well. She did not want to kill these Hobbits, who had gone out of their way to be courteous to her. Even Sam and Frodo, who kept a respectful distance from her, deserved no more to be murdered over the Ring. All the more reason to take the Ring at night, when no one would be awake.

At that moment, Lord Elrond stepped forward, and a silence fell upon everyone. "The Ringbearer is setting out on the Quest of Mount Doom," he spoke, and all looked at Frodo. The Halfling was standing solemnly, his hand unconsciously upon the chain around his neck. Gúthwyn knew the Ring was there, yet she had not made any attempts to take it from him: To do so under the watchful eye of Lord Elrond was folly.

"On you who travel with him," Elrond continued, "no oath, or bond, is laid to go further than you will."

_Thank the Valar for that,_ she thought.

"Farewell," the Elven lord bade them. "Hold to your purpose. May the blessings of Elves, and Men, and all Free Folk go with you." He pressed his hand over his heart and extended it towards them. Gúthwyn blinked, wondering if this was a strange Elven custom. Her suspicions were confirmed when both Legolas and Aragorn returned the gesture.

"The Fellowship awaits the Ringbearer," Gandalf declared, leaning on his staff and looking to Frodo. The Halfling turned towards the gateway, appearing as though the weight of the world was on his shoulders. She did not doubt that this task, hopeless from the beginning, would have instilled the same feelings in her.

Slowly, hesitantly at first, Frodo began walking towards the gateway, about to leave Rivendell behind for months—or so she assumed. If it had taken her close to a season to get here on horseback, despite the numerous detours and time she had wasted, it would no doubt take close to a year to get to Mordor, unless the wizard pushed them faster.

"Mordor, Gandalf, is it left or right?" she heard the Halfling whispering as the Fellowship began following him.

"Left," Gandalf answered. Boromir caught Gúthwyn's eye as they walked out of Lord Elrond's land, and smiled as if to bid her not to worry.

And he was right. From here on out, there could be no worrying, now that Hammel and Haiweth's freedom was so close at hand. Gúthwyn squared her shoulders, ready to face whatever was thrown at her. _I will do this,_ she vowed.

There was no wind, but as the Fellowship passed the trees lining the road, they moved ever so slightly.


	57. The Road South

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Five:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Five**

"Close, better! Come on, now to the left. Right!" Boromir's sword clashed against Merry's, then Pippin's, his feet moving back and forth as he taught the Hobbits the basics of sparring. Gúthwyn watched them intently from her perch upon a large boulder. Aragorn was near her, smoking his pipe and occasionally giving out some pointers. Legolas, happily, was farther away, scanning the surrounding lands. Close to him were Gandalf and Gimli, upon another expanse of rocks.

Thus far, the Fellowship and Gúthwyn had been traveling for just over two weeks. Aragorn and Gandalf had pushed them at relentless paces, fearing enemies even in the skies, and as a result they were now almost at the border between Hollin and Dunland. A remarkable feat, as they had the Halflings with them, who were clearly not used to such strenuous journey. Merry and Pippin had told her the story of their flight from the Shire to Rivendell, both aided and corrected by Sam; yet as Pippin pointed out, two months in the care of the Elves had weakened their walking legs.

Gúthwyn herself was tired at night, though nothing compared to a day's training in Mordor. The exercise was not the major issue—she felt as though a great weight were slowly settling on her, making each step forward more difficult than it normally would have been. And it did not require a wizard to pinpoint the sources of the problem.

Her face hardened as she glanced at Legolas. The mere sight of him invoked both a paralyzing terror and a passionate hatred. He stood for everything she despised, and was a constant reminder of her past. Whenever he spoke with her, she found herself unable to think clearly; her entire body would start shaking, and she was barely able to manage a reply. She tried to avoid him as much as she could, but the fact that they were traveling in the same group made it almost impossible.

Another thing always in the back of her mind was the Ring. She had not even thought about stealing it yet—not until she learned more about Gandalf and Aragorn, anyway. The wizard, she had soon realized, was far more powerful than he appeared; the Ranger still did not trust her enough. It was not that he was suspicious of her purposes, but rather that he simply did not know what to make of her. She could understand where he was coming from: A strange woman accompanying the Fellowship on their quest (though she was not part of the actual Fellowship) was not something he would have preferred, especially one who robed themselves in black and masked the lower part of their face.

Aragorn had certainly been watching her, and she had already attracted Legolas' attention by being both downright rude to and utterly terrified of him; she could not risk, at the moment, taking the Ring. There was still a ways to go until they neared Rohan, but she would have to steal it before then. She had never stolen anything in her life, least of all an object that was attached to someone's neck on a silver chain, yet somehow it would have to work out.

All of this, plus her misery about Borogor and concern for the children, was weighing so heavily on her mind that sleep was almost nonexistent. She constantly awoke during the night, her breathing shallow, trying to shake away the remnants of dark nightmares. Or she would wake up with such a feeling of sadness within her, having dreamed about Borogor, that tears would come to her eyes. The rest of the night she always ended up passing by wrapping herself tightly in Borogor's cloak and reading Beregil's poems, which only served to worsen her mood.

Eating, also, had become even harder as time wore on. Her supply of meat from Mordor had long ago diminished, and since then she had only been able to swallow the occasional piece of fruit or slice of bread. Which was lucky, as they were among the food the Elves had given them, but just the idea of eating in the same area as Legolas had caused her to lose her appetite. Consuming even half a bread slice made her feel so sick that she nearly vomited each morning.

Gúthwyn sighed, looking over at Boromir and the Halflings. He was teaching them how to hold a sword properly, as they had been handling their blades awkwardly. Merry and Pippin's fists were now closed around the bottom of each hilt. They seemed dubious.

"Boromir," she called out, and he glanced at her. "Perhaps it would be easier on them if they shifted their grips higher on the hilt. Your arm is strong, and can wield a sword efficiently from a lower position, but they might have some difficulty."

The Halflings tried her suggestion, and Merry gave a few experimental strokes. "This is better," he said. "It's a small difference, but it makes all the world."

"I did not think of that," Boromir spoke, looking slightly surprised. "Have you had much experience with a sword?"

She nodded. "This," she replied, gesturing to her sword, "is not here for decoration, nor is it to scare away any potential foes."

"It is good to hear that," Aragorn said, speaking around his pipe. "Only the foolish walk the wilds without knowing how to wield a blade."

"As a matter of fact, Boromir, would you mind overmuch if I practice with Merry and Pippin?" Gúthwyn asked. She was in need of some practice. Only during her watch hours was she able to pick up her sword, as she had no desire to train under the eye of any of the others. Least of all Legolas, who took duty frequently, as he was an Elf and did not need as much rest. That was part of the reason why sleep was near impossible.

Boromir shrugged. "As you wish," he said, and stepped aside. Gúthwyn moved up to take his place, casting her cloak upon the rocks. None of the skin below her nose was visible, as in addition to the gloves on her hand she had on leggings and a long-sleeved shirt.

"Are you ready?" she asked the Halflings, unsheathing her sword. They both nodded. "Merry, you first."

He sent a strike to her that she easily parried; from there they sparred, Gúthwyn going easy on him as he had not practiced for long. Then she allowed Pippin to start, and began fending off attacks from both of them. It was not difficult, as they both held back while the other swung at her, and after about five minutes she was nowhere near winded.

"You are both improving tremendously," she complimented them, which was true: They were paying strict attention to the tips she, Boromir, and Aragorn gave them, and had even corrected themselves on occasion. Frodo and Sam were watching them amusedly.

Another minute passed. "Alright, now both of you attack me," she said. For a moment they hesitated. "Go on!"

At length Merry rushed forward, followed immediately by Pippin. The sounds of their swords clashing rang throughout the rocks as Gúthwyn defended herself from the two of them. She had never fought against more than one opponent before, but she did not find it nearly as hard as she had thought. Only once did Pippin come close to getting under her guard, aiming a sneaky strike at her side while Merry occupied her with one to her shoulder; almost without thinking, she whipped her dagger out of her belt and blocked his blade.

"Not fair!" Pippin exclaimed. "How did you do that?"

She looked at the knife in her hands. "I just did it," she replied. Realizing that was not a satisfying explanation, she elucidated. "When you have been practicing for many years, defenses come naturally."

"How long have you been practicing?" Aragorn called from the rocks, brushing his stringy dark hair out of his face to look at her better. She glanced over at him, weighing the possible answers. Giving out her age was not something she wanted to do.

"Since I was twelve," she said at last, then stepped away from Merry and Pippin. "Boromir, do you wish to continue?"

He nodded, and Gúthwyn sat back down on the rocks to watch them. Soon the air was filled with metal hitting metal.

"Two, one, five!" Boromir grunted as he took a turn with Pippin. "Good, very good."

"Move your feet!" Aragorn added. Pippin beamed as he fended off another attack from Boromir, and Gúthwyn felt herself smiling.

"You look good, Pippin," Merry said, and the younger Halfling's grin widened.

The three of them continued sparring until Boromir accidentally nicked Pippin's hand.

"Sorry!" the Gondorian exclaimed as Pippin cried out. Then he groaned, for the Halfling had kicked him furiously in the leg.

"Get him!" Merry cried, and with that, the two Hobbits were upon Boromir, wrestling to the ground. Shouts of "For the Shire!" soon came from the pile, along with "Hold him! Hold him!" Gúthwyn's eyes widened as she repressed laughter.

Aragorn got to his feet. "Gentlemen, that is enough!" he told them, but he was smiling as he did so. He had neared the three of them when both Merry and Pippin turned around and grabbed his legs, yanking them out from underneath him. The Ranger crashed onto his back, the apple he had been eating rolling on the ground beside him.

It was too much. Gúthwyn began laughing at the sight of them. "He got my arm! He got my arm!" Merry was crying.

At that moment, Sam, who had been watching the group, asked, "What is that?"

Gúthwyn swiveled around to squint at their surroundings. Immediately she noticed what appeared to be a cloud of smoke, hanging in the air; oddly, though, it seemed to be growing larger by the second. Her vision was not good enough that she could ascertain what it truly was.

"Nothing, it is just a wisp of cloud," she heard Gimli scoff. Legolas was standing perfectly still upon a boulder, his hand over his eyes as he looked at the shape. Gandalf's face was serious.

"It is moving fast," Boromir murmured as Merry and Pippin disentangled themselves from him. "Against the wind."

Suddenly, Legolas shouted, "Crebain from Dunland!" He hopped down from the rock.

"Hide!" Aragorn roared, and before Gúthwyn knew what was going on, the camp had erupted in chaos. Boromir and Aragorn were yelling at them to take cover, while the Hobbits were quickly gathering all of their things. Sam doused out the fire, and Legolas started leading their packhorse Bill out of sight.

"Gúthwyn, move!" The call from Boromir alerted her to her senses, and she saw that she had been sitting still while the others rushed around her. She blinked, and the wisp of cloud was now a flock of birds, racing towards the camp.

More afraid of the birds than she had reason to be—they looked so familiar, but she could not remember why—she lunged for Borogor's pack and cloak, clutching them tightly as she dove for the cover of a nearby bush next to an overhanging rock. She slammed into something as she hit the ground, then twisted to the side to see what it was.

Terror overcame her as she realized that, out of all the hiding places she could have chosen, she had picked the one Legolas was using. Panicking at the sight of his piercing eyes on hers, she began to scramble away from him.

He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back so that their bodies were nearly touching. "Stay here!" he whispered urgently. "They are almost upon us."

Gúthwyn could hear the shrill shrieking of the birds, but they did not matter—all that mattered was that she had to get away from him, had to get his hands off of her. She started squirming, trying to yank herself out of his grasp. "Let go!" she hissed in fright as Haldor tightened his hold. He was right behind her, keeping her pinned to the ground, his chest pressing into her back… "Haldor, no!"

A hand clamped over her mouth. At that instant there was a sudden rushing noise, hideous against the previously still air. A host of birds soared over them, and Gúthwyn froze in fear. Now she knew where she had seen them: Cobryn had explained to her, long ago, that Saruman used them as messengers, since they were able to gather news in ways that humans and Orcs could not.

The birds circled over the camp; as they did so, Gúthwyn realized that it was Legolas holding her in place, not Haldor. He was keeping her from being seen or heard by the birds, rather than trying to horrify her. Yet when she glanced at him, and he put a finger to his lips, she could not help but tremble. _Please, let the birds be gone,_ she prayed fervently.

At length the black creatures began receding, fading to small specks on the horizon and then disappearing altogether. Legolas released her, and she scrambled out from the hiding place. The rest of the Fellowship was emerging from behind various rocks, looking as shaken as she was.

Legolas glanced at her strangely as he stood up. "My name is Legolas."

"Never mind," she whispered. "Forget I said anything." She wanted to get away from him.

"I am sorry," he continued as he brushed off his knees. "But you did not realize the peril we were in—"

"I realized it fine, thank you," she snapped, angry at both herself for being so terrified of him and the Elf for being so ignorant. "And, had I been given a choice, I would have chosen the birds over your touch!"

She knew she was being rude, especially as Legolas' eyes widened in shock, but anyone who resembled Haldor so closely did not deserve her kindness. Turning away from him, she flung Chalibeth's cloak over her shoulders and wrapped it tightly about herself. Why could Legolas not understand that she hated him? Why did everyone claim that the Elven race was so noble, if she had not met a single kind one?

"Spies of Saruman!" Gandalf muttered to her right, and she jumped as she was jerked out of her thoughts. The wizard was leaning on both a rock and his staff, glancing up at the skies. "The passage south is being watched."

Then his gaze shifted to one of the mountains, and everyone followed it to see a sharp peak rearing its head against the cold winter sky. It was easily the tallest mountain in sight; it was snow-capped, but the sun hit it at such an angle that it looked as though it were stained with blood. Unconsciously, Gúthwyn shivered. Caradhras it was called, Barazinbar in the Dwarven tongue as Gimli had told them, also known as the Cruel. True to its name, it did not appear to be the least bit welcoming to visitors.

Gúthwyn and the Fellowship looked back at Gandalf as he said, tiredly, "We must take the Pass of Caradhras."

Grim were the faces of the Nine Walkers in that moment, and Gúthwyn's matched them. Whatever was to follow next, she did not doubt that it would not be pleasant.


	58. A Frozen Bed

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Six:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Six**

Gúthwyn drew the cloaks around her tightly, shivering in the chilly, harsh air. Gandalf had been leading them up Caradhras, seeking to take them over the mountain and keep them out of Saruman's sight. Gúthwyn privately felt it was working too well: Hardly anyone would expect a group of travelers to cross the highest, coldest peak in the Misty Mountains, yet they had every reason not to. She and the Fellowship were not even halfway up, but already Gúthwyn had donned Chalibeth's cloak, Borogor's cloak, and the cloak that Arwen had given her. She was still freezing.

None of the Fellowship seemed to be this affected by the cold, though Merry and Pippin also complained of the temperatures. Boromir, as a matter of fact, claimed that he was used to such chills, as he grew up near the mountains and knew much about attempting to cross over them. But having been raised in a mild region until she was twelve, then being sent to the warmer Isengard, and from there living in Mordor, where the climate was never below unbearably hot, Gúthwyn was nowhere close to being used to such freezing temperatures.

She suddenly became aware of a small shape tumbling past her. Blinking, she realized that Frodo had lost his footing and fallen. The Hobbit slid to a stop at Aragorn's feet; the Ranger helped him up, and he immediately put his hand to his neck.

_The Ring!_ she thought. Judging by Frodo's wide eyes, it was no longer on him. Tendrils of panic swirled within her as she whirled around to scan his trail. _It cannot be lost!_

At that moment, Boromir stooped down, and when he straightened he held a gleaming chain aloft. Gúthwyn breathed a sigh of relief as she recognized the Ring. _Thank the Valar._

Yet Boromir seemed loth to part with the golden object. "Boromir," Aragorn said sharply from behind her. Gúthwyn's eyes narrowed as she watched the Gondorian.

"It is a strange fate," he murmured, not to any of them, "that we should suffer so much fear and doubt over so small a thing… so small a thing." His hand reached up for the Ring.

"Boromir!" Aragorn called once more, such a stern tone in his voice that Gúthwyn felt nervous. "Give the Ring to Frodo."

Boromir started, coming out of his reverie and moving towards Frodo. He passed her as he went, and Gúthwyn saw a strange gleam in his eyes. It was almost as if the Ring had enchanted him in some way… but how could a simple golden band do that? She had listened to everything the Council had said, yet somehow none of the speakers had explained just _what_ was so bad about allowing Sauron to reclaim it.

She would have to ask Gandalf or Aragorn about it later, preferably Gandalf: Questioning the Ranger too deeply might lead to suspicion. If the wizard had any doubts about her, he at least kept them quiet, and did not let them show in his interactions with her.

Turning, Gúthwyn watched as Boromir approached Aragorn and Frodo. Aragorn's hand was upon the Hobbit's shoulder, but the other one was curled around the hilt of his sword. She winced, wondering if they would come to blows. Yet Boromir merely held out the Ring to Frodo, who snatched it back from him.

_Already a quarrel over this thing,_ she thought. When she glanced at Borogor, who was saying something to the Halfling that she could not hear, she inexplicably felt a sense of foreboding. Though the exchange did not appear like much to an observer, Gúthwyn could not help but notice the way Aragorn's eyes were narrowed, nor that every muscle in his body was tense as if ready for combat. Trouble would come of this, she was sure. And as Boromir had said, over so small a thing.

However, the trouble would have to wait, as they needed to continue their climbing. Ascertaining that everything was alright, if only for the moment, Gandalf turned and started leading them again. Boromir came up to her from behind as they walked.

"What was that about?" she asked him. He shrugged, and did not seem in a mood to talk. But he did remain at her side as they came further and further up the mountain. She did not mind: After Borogor, she was inclined to trust Gondorians, and was not nearly so nervous about being in close company with them as she was with Elves.

The journey continued on in silence. None of the Fellowship had anything to say; Gúthwyn did not add to the nonexistent conversation, either. They wrapped themselves in their thoughts and cloaks as the weather grew colder, trying to ignore the way the wind was fiercely whipping around them and the snow that was just beginning to fall. In less than ten minutes, everything had turned a pure white color, and the flakes were still thickening.

Gúthwyn felt more uncomfortable than she had ever been in her life. She was freezing, her feet and hands completely numb, and all she could see was white. The shapes of Aragorn and Gandalf, now leading the group, were barely visible in the storm. Why were they heading up here again? What was the point? To keep them from detection by the Enemy, yet freeze them to death here?

She was about to collapse from the cold when Gandalf halted. His boots were already ankle-deep in the snow, which was showing no signs of relenting. Gúthwyn was close behind him and Aragorn, and was able to hear their conversation clearly.

"This is what I feared," he spoke, looking at the Ranger. "What do you say now, Aragorn?"

It sounded as if the two of them had long been debating their course. During the morning, she had seen them talking quietly about something, although had not realized that even then they were thinking about the mountain passes.

Aragorn sighed. "That I feared it, too," he said wearily, "but less than other things." He turned and shielded his eyes with his hand, gazing out into the storm. "I knew the risk of snow, though it seldom falls so heavily so far south, save high up in the mountains. But we are not high yet; we are still far down, where the paths are usually open all the winter."

Beside her, Boromir spoke up. "I wonder if this is a contrivance of the Enemy," he began, turning as well to face the East. "They say in my land that he can govern the storms in the Mountains of Shadow that stand upon the borders of Mordor."

Gúthwyn could attest to that, though she could not say that the Dark Lord had much variety in his choices—the only type of weather Mordor received was hot, with a side of ashy and cloudy skies.

"He has strange powers and many alliances," Boromir finished. Was it her imagination, or did Aragorn's eyes flick over to her?

Now Gimli joined the conversation. "His arm has grown long indeed," the Dwarf returned, stumping up to hear them better. He leaned on his axe as he added, "If he can draw snow down the North to trouble us here three hundred leagues away."

"His arm has grown long," Gandalf confirmed, yet he looked not to the east, but to the south.

Suddenly Gúthwyn realized that Sauron was not the only Enemy. That there was another figure, skilled in wizardry as Gandalf, that might have the power to command the weather in the Misty Mountains. Someone whose rule she had labored under for four years…

"What of the wizard, Saruman?" she asked, raising her voice slightly. The wind carried it away, and all that came out was a mutter. Aragorn looked at her.

"Come again?"

"The wizard, Saruman!" Boromir shouted at him. This time the Ranger was able to hear him clearly, as the wind was beginning to die down. And now that she looked… was the snowfall slackening as well?

Gandalf glanced at her shrewdly. "Such are my fears," he said gravely. "The black birds must have been sent at his bidding."

Gúthwyn nodded numbly. She was so cold that the thought of further speaking was an impossibility: Her lips were all but frozen together. At the very least, they were blue.

"Well, let us continue!" Gandalf exclaimed. "All the more reason to make haste."

She barely managed to suppress a groan at the idea of trudging on in these miserable conditions. Yet she put her shaking foot forward as the Company prepared to start another march. The Halflings looked equally as unhappy as she; the rest of the Fellowship, however, stoically faced the now worsening blizzard.

For perhaps an hour or so more, they moved along the pass. Gúthwyn felt as if she would die. Every motion of her frozen limbs seemed to take all of her energy, and then there was always another step she had to take. The cold was seeping through to her bones, gnawing at them relentlessly, until she became convinced that she was getting frostbite. What else could come of such icy, cruel conditions?

Unexpectedly, Gandalf and Aragorn halted. The whole group came to a stop, wordlessly, relieved by the respite. But as they stood there, it seemed to Gúthwyn that a shrill voice could be heard, laughing hideously through the screeching wind. As if commanded to do so, rocks began tumbling down the slopes, narrowly missing their heads as they flung themselves towards the foot of the mountain. The Fellowship huddled together to take a conference.

"We cannot go further tonight!" Boromir said, his voice raised so that they were able to hear him over the storm's racket. "Let those call it the wind who will; there are fell voices on the air; and these stones are aimed at us."

To accentuate his point, a large boulder was hurtled over them, coming within inches of Legolas' head before falling over the edge of the pass. _Pity it did not hit him,_ she thought, only slightly ashamed of her feelings. It was difficult to repent when you were surrounding by the wrath of a blizzard.

"…There are many evil and unfriendly things in the world that have little love for those that go on two legs,"—she realized that Aragorn had been speaking, and jolted herself out of her thoughts to listen to him—"and yet are not in league with Sauron, but have purposes of their own. Some have been in this world longer than he."

Gimli stirred. The Dwarf's red beard had been turned white by the storm, and quivered as he spoke. "Caradhras was called the Cruel, and had an ill name, long years ago, when rumor of Sauron had not been heard in these lands."

She could not imagine a time when the Dark Lord had not been oppressing the Free Peoples, if only as a dark shadow on the borders of the lands.

"It matters little who the enemy is, if we cannot beat his attack," Gandalf replied. His eyes were darting both to the east and to the south.

Pippin spoke up from where he was huddled alongside the other Hobbits. He looked as bad as Gúthwyn felt. "But what can we do?" he asked, and there was a pleading note in his voice. He clearly wanted to rest as much as everyone else did.

"Either stop where we are, or go back," the wizard answered. _Please, let us stop!_ Gúthwyn begged silently. Under Boromir's advice, they had all carried with them a faggot of wood. The Gondorian had grown up by the mountains, and knew that fire was oftentimes the difference between life and death. This, she felt, was one of those times. She would truly keel over if they went any farther.

Gandalf continued. "It is no good going on," he said. "Only a little higher, if I remember rightly, this path leaves the cliff and runs into a wide shallow trough at the bottom of a long hard slope. We should have no shelter there from snow, or stones—or anything else."

Gúthwyn did not know what else he could possibly expect, but as she glanced up at the cliff-wall towering above them, she found herself unwilling to abandon its minimal protection.

"And it is no good going back while the storm holds," Aragorn added, also looking up at the cliff. "We have passed no place on the way up that offered more shelter than this cliff-wall we are under now."

"Shelter!" Sam scoffed, and Gúthwyn had to agree with him. "If this is shelter, then one wall and no roof make a house."

No one in the Fellowship had anything to say to that, and at length they retreated off of the path and huddled together underneath the overhanging wall. It provided little protection: The wind was whipping so fiercely that just as much snow hit them there. The Hobbits crouched behind Bill the pony, which seemed to work somewhat, but Gúthwyn could not even get her limbs to move over to the animal.

Instead, she settled for sliding down to the ground, shivering as she met the freezing snow. She drew her cloaks tightly around her, but it was of no use. The cold refused to relent; she was so numb that she was unable to even think clearly.

_Lie down…_ she thought. Or was it someone else whispering to her? Yet she did as the voice bid, curling up into as tiny a ball as she could manage and shrinking with her back against the rock. The wind bit at her face, and she wrapped her arms around her head, drawing it closer to her chest. Everything was so cold…

Gradually, a peaceful blankness began working its way over her. The Fellowship disappeared, along with their white surroundings. She was home, with Éowyn and Éomer riding out to greet her… She and Chalibeth were sparring, while Cobryn looked on and offered pointers… The children were hugging her, their laughter pure and untainted… And then Borogor was drawing closer to her, his arms around her, their lips just inches from each other's…

Suddenly two heavy hands grabbed her shoulders, hauling her up and banishing the memories. She whimpered as she was dragged out of the snow, then put into a standing position. Boromir had pulled her out of a steadily growing pile of snow, which had settled over her as she slept.

Gúthwyn gasped as she realized that she was completely soaked. She tried to move her arms, but she could not. It was simply too cold. She was trapped in a frozen paralysis, unable to do anything. Boromir brushed the snow off of her, then started rubbing her arms with his hands. He was not trying to take advantage of her—Gúthwyn could sense that her life was hanging in the balance: If she did not get warm soon, she would perish.

As the knowledge came to her, she could not even panic. Boromir's motions were shaking her limp body, and some of the Fellowship were watching them, but still she did not have the energy to care.

"Gandalf!" Boromir called as he worked. "She and the Halflings cannot go on like this!"

Gúthwyn tried to open her mouth to say that she was fine, but all that came out was a low moan. The eyes of all the Fellowship were now on her and the Hobbits—mainly Frodo, who was looking as if he had just been pulled out of a snow bank as well—and she flushed, especially when Legolas glanced over. _Now they think I am weak,_ she thought to herself, and made to step away from Boromir.

"Do not move into the cold!" he told her urgently, and then he had wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. She found herself being covered by his cloak, which was at least drier than her own.

"No, no," she tried to say, but another whimper came out instead.

Gandalf watched them. "We shall go on for a little longer!" he called, and Gúthwyn felt her heart dropping like a stone. "But in the meantime, give them this!"

He withdrew from his robes a small flash, and held it up for them to see. "Just a mouthful of each—" he cautioned, "for all of us. It is very precious. It is _miruvor_, the cordial of Imladris. Elrond gave it to me at our parting. Pass it round!"

The drink went first to the Hobbits, who all looked reinvigorated as a small sip of it went down their throats. Gúthwyn's teeth were chattering so much that she did not know how she was going to get it down. Yet she was slowly getting warmer, thanks to Boromir's body heat. The Gondorian must have traveled extensively in the mountains, to know how to treat her so efficiently, and she was immensely grateful that he had.

When it was her turn to have a drink, she extended a frozen hand out and managed to get the smallest mouthful down. Almost immediately, she felt the tiredness leaving her body. It was more than that, though—it was as if there was a renewal of hope. She suddenly knew that her fate was not to perish on this mountain, not while Hammel and Haiweth were still alive.

As they all stood there, feeling strangely refreshed and renewed, Boromir asked abruptly, "What do you say to fire?"

The wizard glanced over at him. "The choice seems near now between fire and death, Gandalf. Doubtless we shall be hidden from all unfriendly eyes when the snow has covered us, but that will not help us."

Indeed, the snow and wind were falling faster, and even with Boromir's heat and the _miruvor_, Gúthwyn was colder than she had ever been in her entire life.

"You may make a fire, if you can," Gandalf replied, and his face had pity as he looked upon her and the Hobbits. Shame wrapped itself tighter around her. "If there are any watchers that can endure this storm, then they can see us, fire or no."

At his words, everyone took out their faggots and prepared to burn them. Gúthwyn handed hers numbly over to Boromir, who cleared a space with his foot and tossed them on the ground. Yet, try as they might, no one could kindle a fire, not even Gimli, whose people were normally infallible at such a task. Eventually, Gandalf sighed and stepped forward.

Raising his staff, the wizard picked up a faggot and murmured in a strange tongue. He then placed the point of the staff upon the wood, and suddenly it burst into flame.

"If there are any to see, then I at least am revealed to them," Gandalf muttered. "I have written _Gandalf is here_ in signs that all can read from Rivendell to the mouths of Anduin."

But Gúthwyn no longer cared about any potential watchers. As the Fellowship circled around the merrily burning fire, Boromir let her go, and she was able to stand by his side. Heat from the flames warmed her hands when she stuck them out; in fact, it was all around her, making less cold not only her body but her heart as well.

"Are you alright?" Boromir asked her quietly as they stood. She had to strain to hear his words over the wind.

"I am fine, thank you," she replied, though her answer was not curt as it would have been to Legolas. "I must have fallen asleep."

"At any rate, for a moment I thought you had been left behind, for you were undetectable under the snow."

"Thank you for finding me." She was truly grateful to him. If he had not pulled her out of the snow, she would have certainly frozen to death.

He waved aside her thanks. "Anyone would have done so. You are not used to this climate, are you?"

"No," she answered, shaking her head and shivering slightly. "The weather is far more pleasant in the Mark."

"What part of Rohan are you from?" Boromir inquired. "Edoras?"

She nodded. "Have you traveled there before?"

"Yes," he replied. "Once. Do you see the king often?"

Wincing at the mention of Théoden, she nodded her head once more. "As well as his son, Théodred."

Boromir's voice lowered. "Is it true, then, that Théoden's niece disappeared years ago? We have heard rumor of it in Gondor, but nothing more."

Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat. She could only imagine what Boromir would say if he knew who she was.

"Yes, it is true," she managed at last. Was he, in fact, aware of her identity, and merely playing with her?

"What was her name?" Boromir inquired, and her fears were put to rest. But now she had to answer the question.

"Théoden does not like to speak of her," she lied weakly. "I would respect his wishes."

He shrugged. "And I shall not dispute that."

They fell silent, and the wind shrieked around them. The fire was burning fast, and before long the last faggot was tossed upon it.

"The night is getting old," Aragorn said. "The dawn is not far off."

"If any dawn can pierce these clouds," Gimli muttered, and Gúthwyn privately shared his complaints.

Boromir stepped away from her, causing a sudden icy blast to attack her side. She cringed, wrapping her arms tightly about her.

"The snow is growing less," the Gondorian commented, "and the wind is quieter."

Gúthwyn glanced up into the black sky, but she could see none of what he said. Yet slowly, surely, his words came true. The snowfall decreased until it was almost nonexistent—she rubbed her hands in relief, already feeling some respite from the cold.

Gimli did not seem as content. "Caradhras has not forgiven us," he said in a low tone. "He has more snow yet to fling at us, if we go on. The sooner we go back and down the better."

Gandalf shook his head. "I would have us try one last time," he replied, and Gúthwyn nearly cried out in despair. "If no luck comes our way before the afternoon, we shall turn back."

To this the Company assented, though reluctantly. The wizard began leading them forward once more; Boromir offered a hand to Gúthwyn, but she kindly refused him. She could survive for a few more hours. It would be absolutely pathetic if she did not. She was already regretting her weakness beforehand.

Soon it became clear that Caradhras was not willing to make a truce with them. The snow started almost right as they did, falling fast and furiously, blinding them and choking their mouths with white. Once, Gúthwyn looked up to see Legolas moving past her. She blinked when she saw that his feet were resting lightly upon the snow, and that he walked with ease along it.

Suddenly the Elf stopped, peering over the precipice they were on and listening intently. The rest of the Fellowship halted as well. And then they heard, from a far off distance, a voice calling to the wind, now faint and sporadic, now loud and strong, always evil and cruel. It was familiar to her, yet she could not place it.

"There is a fell voice on the air!" Legolas exclaimed, turning to Gandalf.

The wizard had been forging a path through the snow with his staff, but now he stared at the source of the noise. "It is Saruman!" he yelled.

Almost immediately, there was a rumbling above them. Gúthwyn glanced up, and her heart froze. A fresh wave of snow was cascading down towards them.

She and the Nine Walkers hastily flattened themselves against the rock wall, narrowly avoiding the snow. It fell harmlessly onto the pass; they would have been covered, had they lingered any longer.

"He is trying to bring down the mountain!" Aragorn roared. Beside him, Sam and Frodo huddled together, both looking miserably cold. "Gandalf, we must turn back!"

"No!" Gandalf replied, and if Gúthwyn had not been so numb, she would have withdrawn her sword and stabbed him. Why was he insisting on leading them through this storm?

The wizard now made his way to the edge of the cliff. Legolas followed, stopping a little ways behind. Gandalf flung his arms out, holding his staff aloft, and began to chant, though in a different tongue than he had used to kindle the flames. Gúthwyn did not understand what she was saying, but she thought that it was a challenge to Saruman. Small wisps of fear were making their way through her. She had experienced the White Wizard's power firsthand, and knew that he was far more powerful than the Grey.

As if to confirm her belief, a bolt of lightning unexpectedly struck the top of the mountain, releasing another avalanche. Legolas leapt forward and dragged Gandalf back towards the cliff-wall; it was the last she saw of them before all turned white.

Then she was in a freezing grave, trapped under the snow, unable to breathe or move. She panicked, struggling to beat at the snow with her arms; her movements became more frenzied when there was no success. Every motion seemed to sap all of her strength, and for several seconds, she thought that she would perish.

But suddenly her head broke through the surface of the snow, and she gasped heavily as the air came flooding back to her. Then she whimpered, and hastily edged backwards: Legolas had also popped out of the snow, and he was just a foot away from her.

"Are you alright?" he questioned, pulling himself from Caradhras' white grasp. He extended a hand to help her do the same, but she ignored it. She was also spared from answering him when the rest of the Fellowship appeared, panting heavily and rejoicing to be inhaling the fresh air again.

Boromir was one of the first to gain his bearings. "We must get off the mountain!" he shouted. "Make for the Gap of Rohan, and take the West Road to my city!"

"The Gap of Rohan takes us too close to Isengard!" Aragorn retorted.

"Yet it is folly to remain here, when we are like to freeze to death or get trapped by another snowfall!" Gúthwyn countered, swallowing the melted snow before she spoke. It went down the wrong way, and she began choking.

Gimli, too, had a say. "If we cannot pass over a mountain," he began, "let us go under it. Let us go through the Mines of Moria."

Moria. Gúthwyn had seen the name marked on her map, but had never known what it was. As a matter of fact, it had covered a section of the Misty Mountains, including where they stood now. _Are there truly mines under the Redhorn?_ she wondered as she coughed some more.

Gandalf's face was clouded. "Let the Ringbearer decide," he declared.

All eyes turned to Frodo, who looked caught off guard by the unexpected burden. He exchanged glances with Sam.

"We cannot stay here!" Boromir roared, gesturing towards her and the Halflings. "This will be the death of Gúthwyn and the Hobbits!"

"Frodo?" Gandalf asked, looking at the Halfling.

Still coughing slightly, Gúthwyn saw Frodo's eyes flick over Sam, Merry, and Pippin, then upon her and the rest of the Company. Everyone was miserable here.

"We will go through the Mines," he said at last.

A great weariness seemed to settle over Gandalf. "So be it," he murmured.

Gúthwyn breathed a sigh of relief, and then promptly started choking again. Boromir reached over and clapped a hand down her back; she gasped in pain, as all of the knife wounds were there, but her coughing stopped. "Thank you," she managed. "Again."

"Take care," he cautioned.

And so the Fellowship and Gúthwyn began retreating down the mountain. Caradhras had been the victor.


	59. Moria

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Seven:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Seven**

"Soon, Gúthwyn, you will see the halls of my people, in all their majesty and glory!" Gimli breathed deeply, gesturing with his hands towards the rock walls alongside them. They were walking alongside each other, just behind Gandalf and Frodo, as they neared Moria. In the past hour, she had learned that it was the greatest realm of the Dwarves in all of Middle-earth, since the sinking of Beleriand below the sea; however, Legolas had been quick to point out that, in the tongue of Elves, Moria meant "black pit."

Mercifully, though, the Elf was somewhere behind them, and Gimli was hard at work correcting the false assumption of his people's home. She had heard in detail all of the precious metals mined there, of the unsurpassable architecture, and of the glorious depths to which Moria reached.

"Even now, being among these rocks puts my heart at ease," Gimli now told her, sighing contentedly. "I am most at home in the mountains, and to know that my feet stand atop solid stone is a great comfort."

She smiled. Her scarf was still wrapped around her mouth, so he did not see it, but the Dwarf had cheered her with his speech. "Then I am eager to see this place, if it brings such happiness to you. But for myself, I would rather have the open fields, with a swift horse beneath me."

"Horses!" Gimli grumbled. Out of all the Fellowship, he was the least comfortable around Bill. "I do not know how you stand them."

"I have been around them my entire life," she replied, which was only partly true.

Gimli opened his mouth to answer when he unexpectedly stopped, staring straight ahead with an expression of awe and delight on his face. "The walls of Moria!" he gasped.

Gúthwyn followed his gaze to see a wall of sheer, impenetrable rock looming before them. It was taller than she could have imagined, yet the sight of it did not seem cheery to her. Despite Gimli's praise for the place, she could not muster up enthusiasm for the trip inside it. Separating her and the Fellowship from this wall, however, was a still, glassy lake, darker than the night sky above them. She looked at the water, and for reasons unbeknownst to her shuddered.

It seemed as though the others had similar moods, for as Gandalf led them single-file around the lake via a narrow, rocky path, all of them were silent, and no one so much as dipped their feet into the icy depths. Gúthwyn watched the wizard feeling his way along the wall, running his hands over the surface while he walked. She wondered what he was doing.

"Dwarf doors are invisible when closed," Gimli spoke up from just ahead of her. She blinked, then realized that of course they would have to get into Moria one way or another. Quickly she looked around at the wall, but saw no doors, Dwarven or not.

"Yes, Gimli," Gandalf replied over his shoulder, "their own masters cannot find them if their secrets are forgotten."

"Why does that not surprise me?" a voice muttered right behind her, and she jumped. Legolas it was who had spoken; she twitched nervously at the thought of him so close to her. Suddenly she wanted Gandalf to get them to the other side of the lake as quickly as possible, where there was space to rearrange their lines.

As she trembled and tried to move closer to Gimli, she saw Frodo lose his footing and slip. One foot splashed into the lake, creating an eerie noise that echoed in the night air. Aragorn hastened to pull him up, glancing at the water suspiciously. A few ripples slowly meandered towards the center.

She continued to watch them as they walked, then looked up to see Gandalf pausing along a bare expanse of rock. It was completely smooth, unlike the more jagged edges they had been moving next to previously. The wizard ran his hands up and down the wall slowly, murmuring quietly to himself. The rest of the Fellowship spread out onto what was like a rocky front lawn, standing as they watched the old man work.

"Well, let us see…" he muttered. "_Ithildin._ It mirrors only starlight and moonlight."

Gúthwyn craned her neck up to gaze into the sky. There were plenty of stars—her heart clenched as she remembered stargazing with Cobryn—but no moon.

Gandalf looked up as well. As if in answer to his words, a cloud shifted gradually to the left, revealing a bright moon shining down upon them all. The Company turned to see silver-colored lines forming along what had, seconds ago, been a nondescript wall. Right before their eyes a door appeared, gleaming in the darkness. Gúthwyn gaped to see it: The lines created an arched gateway, the pillars of which were entwined by two trees. Just under the arch was a crown, and seven stars; beneath them were a hammer and anvil. Finally, there were words inscribed upon the gateway, in what she recognized to be Elven script. She had never seen any entrance such as the one in front of her.

Gandalf put his staff to the words, reading them by the light of the _ithildin._ "It reads 'The Doors of Durin, Lord of Moria. Speak, friend, and enter.'"

"What do you suppose that means?" Merry asked, exchanging confused looks with Pippin. Gúthwyn was just as lost as they were.

"Oh, it is quite simple," Gandalf responded. "If you are a friend, you speak the password, and the doors will open." He drew himself upright and began to chant in the tongue he had used to start a fire on Caradhras; she thought it was Elven. She shifted on her feet, waiting for the entrance to Moria to be opened for them. Yet when Gandalf finished speaking, it remained steadfastly closed.

"Nothing's happening," Pippin said.

Gandalf paid little attention to him. He started talking in a great variety of languages, some of which Gúthwyn had never even heard before. Words were repeated, changed, said longer or shorter, or in different tones of voice. Her attention, previously captivated by the door, began to slide.

Ten minutes later, there was no sign of the door opening anytime soon. The members of the Fellowship were now wandering around as Gandalf attempted to gain entrance to Moria. Merry and Pippin drifted to the water, while Frodo and Sam began speaking to each other quietly. Borogor and Aragorn were silent, sometimes sitting, other times standing; Gimli sat down on a rock, sighing heavily as he watched Gandalf; Legolas stayed standing, his back perfectly straight on top of a small boulder. Gúthwyn moved away from him, settling down on the ground closer to Boromir.

She leaned against the rock wall and opened Borogor's pack, reaching for Beregil's book and removing it carefully from the bag. Now whenever she looked at it, the pages automatically fell open to "The Warrior." Barely a night had passed by that she did not peruse its words; all of it she could recite in her sleep, even remembering the exact way Beregil's hand had set the poem down.

Now she held the book tightly and reread the poem. The scarf around her eyes was firmly in place, which was lucky. At _his sword glints in the sunlight_, her breathing became less steady. Her lips formed the words, each movement getting more difficult as she drew closer to the end. By _willing to put himself in danger for those he loves, _she felt the tears pricking at her eyelids once more. As always, she brushed them away, but the act did not banish the thoughts.

_If only I had not been so foolish!_ she moaned silently, cursing herself for her stupidity. How much grief would she have saved if she had but realized in time their love for each other? At least then they might have been together, if only for a brief time, before he was so cruelly taken away from her by Faramir.

She wanted Borogor with her so much that it was a constant ache she carried with her. The Fellowship were courteous to her, even Legolas—though she hated him with much of her being, for creating a fool out of her, and for resembling Haldor so closely—which was something new to her; yet she would have traded all of them away for facing the taunts of the Udûn men with Borogor by her side.

Glancing at the poem one last time, she tenderly closed the book, sending a prayer up to the Valar that Borogor was better off wherever he was now. And she was immensely thankful that he had not been there when she had made love to Haldor. At the very thought, she tensed up, clutching Beregil's book tightly and recoiling from the shame. She still could not understand how she had done something so disgusting and vile.

"What are you reading?" someone questioned.

Gúthwyn tilted her head up to see Boromir standing next to her, looking down at the book curiously. "I have seen you with that often," he explained. "Normally I would not be so inquisitive, but it you seem to treasure it above everything else."

She nodded, not minding that he was asking her, though she was not about to tell him what was so special about it. "It is a collection of poems," she answered, lowering the hood of Chalibeth's cloak and taking off the scarf around her eyes to see him better. "From home."

And home it was. Rohan was no longer the only place she held dear in her heart—wherever Borogor was, she would feel at ease. Surely that was the definition of home: A place in which you were safe from all enemies, a place that you longed to be whenever you were away from it, a place where you would willingly live for the rest of your life. So what if the 'place' happened to be a person?

"Are you alright?" Boromir's voice took her back out of her thoughts, and she mentally shook herself.

"Sorry," she replied. "I just got distracted." Her gaze turned towards the water, which Merry and Pippin were skipping stones onto. The lake bubbled and rippled unpleasantly; Gúthwyn found that she wanted to stop the Halflings from their game.

Boromir noticed it as well. "Excuse me," he said, and started making his way over to them. A little ways beyond Merry and Pippin, she could see Sam leading Bill down the lake's edge. All of their packs had been taken off the horse—she realized that Sam was setting him free. One could certainly not lead an animal through the Mines of Moria, where there would be no food for it. But still she felt a twinge of sadness, for she had often fed Bill with her own food, her stomach having rejected it; and when Sam was not doing so, she usually was the one holding Bill's reins. He was not a great horse, having come from Bree—Feride had been from there, she remembered—which was not renowned for their mares, but he was companionable enough.

_Goodbye, Bill,_ she said silently, then looked back at Merry and Pippin. She wished they would stop. It was a mystery to her why, but there was a bad feeling about the lake.

Pippin was reaching his arm to throw another rock when Aragorn caught him by the shoulder. Boromir was not far behind. "Do not disturb the water," the Ranger hissed, and all four of them gazed at the dark surface. Gúthwyn watched it as well. Strangely enough, the ripples from the stones did not fade away; rather, they grew larger.

She got to her feet as well, and went over to the two Men. "What is going on?" she asked them.

Aragorn glanced at her. "I think the sooner we get into the Mines, the better," he muttered, and Boromir nodded.

"Gimli says the Dwarves are hospitable, and that the halls are warm and spacious," Gúthwyn said, unconsciously wrapping her arms around herself as she gazed upon the water.

Aragorn shook his head. "I have been in the Mines, once," he told her, and she turned in surprise to him. "Nor do I wish to repeat the experience."

"Do you not like the Dwarves?"

"Dwarves will not be our concern," was Aragorn's mysterious reply.

She was about to press him further when a sudden rumbling noise caught their attention. They all swiveled around to see a crack appearing in the _ithildin_ door. Gandalf had solved the riddle, evidently. Two gigantic slabs of stone began swinging out to them, revealing… darkness. Nothing could pierce the black shadows within. Where were the blazing fires Gimli had spoken of?

The Fellowship quickly gathered their things and began filing in, but Gúthwyn hung back. She did not want to go into this dark place; she could not, would not.

"Gúthwyn, swiftly!" Boromir called as he disappeared into the Mines. She shuddered, and took another look at the water. It was still rippling.

"Come." The voice came from Aragorn, who had gathered up the remaining supplies and was about to go inside. "After you."

She folded her arms across her stomach and took slow, halting steps to the doors, utterly unwilling to pass them. "Are you sure this is the only way through?" she asked the Ranger tentatively.

He nodded grimly. Gúthwyn turned to face the darkness, but she quailed. "I cannot do this," she whispered. Even the thought of returning to Mordor without the Ring could not make her go into the place.

"We will all have to endure dark places in our time," Aragorn said shortly, though not unkindly.

Already she was feeling sick. Aragorn passed her then, entering the Mines without so much as a backward glance. The rest of the Fellowship were already inside, milling around in the entrance hall, while Gandalf and Gimli slowly went forward. Creeping towards them, Gúthwyn paused just outside of the Mines. She could hear the Dwarf's voice clearly. He had been speaking with Legolas, who looked none too pleased to be in Moria.

"This, my friend," Gimli said, gesturing towards the wide expanse of stone, "is the home of my cousin Balin. And they call it a mine. A mine!"

Suddenly Boromir stopped moving and stared down at the ground. "This is no mine," he breathed, and Gúthwyn had to strain her ears to hear him. "It is a tomb."

Confused, the daughter of Éomund took the smallest step inside the mine. Immediately something crunched underneath her foot. Leaping backwards in shock, she saw that she had stepped on a skull—_a Dwarven skull._

The Company started; all around them, the ground was revealing countless numbers of skeletons, many with arrows in their heads. Others were deformed, missing several limbs, and still others had a strange structure. Gimli was wailing miserably as he ran from one slaughtered Dwarf to the other. Gúthwyn pressed her hands over her stomach, nearly about to throw up. _What is this place?_ she wondered in a panic, backing away to the doors.

Legolas moved towards one of the skeletons, yanking an arrow out of its empty eye socket. He examined it. "Goblins!" he spat, and withdrew his bow, fitting an arrow to it and holding it ready to fire almost before she could blink.

Aragorn and Boromir unsheathed their swords. The weapons gleamed in the minimal light from the _ithildin._

"We make for the Gap of Rohan," Boromir said, his breathing heavy. "We should never have come here."

At his words, the Halflings began moving towards her, edging away from whatever horrors the Mines of Moria held. Frodo was leading them; he was drawing closer to her by the second.

"Now, get out, get out!" Boromir's yell instilled panic in the Hobbits, and they skittishly backed almost to the lake. Gúthwyn turned to follow them, then gasped in shock. A long tentacle, dripping wet, extended swiftly from the waters and wrapped itself around Frodo. The Halfling gave a cry as he was pulled off of his feet; Gúthwyn withdrew her sword as the tentacle dangled him over the lake.

She plunged into the water, terrified of what might be lurking beneath her, but even more afraid of what would happen if Frodo perished. Behind her, she could hear Merry, Pippin, and Sam shouting for help. More tentacles were emerging, flailing as wildly as the one that bore Frodo. Gúthwyn began hacking at them, praying that the creature would somehow loosen its hold.

Only a few seconds had passed before Aragorn and Boromir were in the lake with her, their swords held aloft and ready to come to the Hobbit's aid. Together, the three of them chopped at the tentacles, eliciting several strange roaring noises. Yet still Frodo had not been released—he gave a shriek as he was whipped around in the air, and Gúthwyn made her strikes harder, wanting desperately to release the poor Halfling.

Then there was a disturbance in the lake, accompanied by a deep rumbling. The waters parted, and a gigantic monster emerged. It was hideous and slimy; no words could describe what it looked like, other than its mouth, which was fathomless as the lake itself, and gaping open. The arm holding Frodo began lowering towards it.

Suddenly Aragorn leapt forward, and with a great stroke hewed off the tentacle. Frodo tumbled down to them, landing in Boromir's arms with a soft _thump_. Boromir began retreating out of the water, followed by Gúthwyn and Aragorn, and, more alarmingly, the monster itself. It clearly intended to regain what had been his only seconds ago.

Gandalf, Gimli, and the other Hobbits were already moving back into the shelter of the Mines. Gúthwyn tore after them, choosing in a quick instant between certain death at the hands of the monster and the paralyzing horror of the dark. Boromir and Aragorn were just on her heels, with Legolas behind them.

"Into the Mines!" Gandalf roared, gesturing with his staff before disappearing into the shadows. The Hobbits went after him.

"Legolas!" Boromir yelled. Gúthwyn turned to see the Elf lift his bow and fire a shot at the monster. The arrow hit the creature's eye, bringing with it a roar of fury that was all the distraction they needed.

"Into the cave! Run!" Aragorn urged them on, and no more warnings were necessary. With fear infusing their hearts, they raced into the Mines, mere steps away from the creature's outstretched tentacles. Gúthwyn ignored the bones crunching beneath her feet as she retreated further inside. Then she gasped: The monster had gripped the doors by its arms, and with an enormous surge of power slammed them shut.

The darkness was complete. Rocks began crashing down onto the passage, blocking off the doors, the noise painful to her ears. She covered her head with her arms, afraid of being hit by one of the stones, and sprinted forward several more paces. Nothing could penetrate the blackness. A rush of terror ran through her as she bumped into someone, but just as quickly it was gone.

Slowly the sounds faded, until there was a horrible silence. Panicking, Gúthwyn reached for something—_anything_—to hold onto. Her hand closed around something, and she gripped it as tightly as she could, using all the strength she had in her.

"Ouch!" a man exclaimed. Then a light, so bright at first that it dazzled her, shone, and Gúthwyn realized that she was holding Boromir's hand, her own knuckles white from the pressure she was exerting on it.

"Sorry," she whispered in embarrassment, letting go of him at once and backing away.

"Do not worry about it," he replied kindly, in an equally low tone. Then he turned around to gaze at their new location. Gúthwyn's eyes followed his own, and fell upon vast, immeasurably tall ceilings, just barely visible in the shadows above. Everything was made of stone, and looked unforgiving and foreboding.

She trembled at the sight of the dark, and turned her eyes back to the light. It came from Gandalf's staff: He had lit it while she was stumbling around, panicked and disoriented. She instinctively moved closer to it, but then froze when she saw Legolas standing besides the wizard.

"We now have but one choice," Gandalf murmured heavily, glancing towards a set of broad stairs before him. They rose up onto another level of the Dwarven stronghold, which soon faded into the blackness. "We must face the long dark of Moria."

When she heard those words, Gúthwyn stumbled, and Boromir had to catch her.


	60. Frightening Prospects

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Eight:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. This is especially in this chapter, where I have taken out the scene where the Fellowship rests in the Twenty-First hall, and replaced it with them being in the guardroom (while Gandalf tries to figure out which passage to take). The night before, when they were supposed to be in the guardroom, I have skipped over (this does not mean it did not happen in the story—I just am not writing much about it, except for in passing). Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Eight**

It had been almost two days since they had begun the journey through the Mines. Gandalf had said it would probably take three to get to the other side—Boromir had had to keep her from falling then, as well—and the Fellowship was eager to be out of the place. As a result, they had gone for all this time with only one stop last night, hoping to put a great distance behind them. Moria was dark, and they did not know what lay outside of the light spilling from the wizard's staff.

Gúthwyn had tried to remain close to Gandalf, but Legolas always seemed to be second in the single-file line that they traveled in. She was caught between a blatant terror of the dark and an even greater terror of Haldor; the latter won. So instead she went between Boromir and Pippin, trusting to the Gondorian for security. Borogor's cloak she had also wrapped tightly around herself, breathing in his scent during moments of panic and attempting to calm down.

Yet, despite her efforts, she could not stop her body from shaking, nor her eyes darting wildly to the side every few seconds, nor the nausea swelling up within her, nor the sweat forming on her head and hands. The darkness was pressing in on her, choking her, and even with Gandalf's light the shadows were still everywhere. She jumped at the slightest noise, and trembled whenever one of the Company accidentally bumped into her.

And then there were the memories. As Gúthwyn walked, they assailed her viciously, never allowing her a moment's peace. She could hear, even in the Mines, the ragged breathing of the Wargs, and see the two pinpricks of light staring at her from the blackness. The girl's face was crawling with maggots, and Sharkû's laugh echoed unpleasantly as he raised the cage up off the ground…

But they did not stop there. The recollections seemed to gain intensity with each passing minute, until she could feel Haldor's hands stroking her stomach, hear his whispers… beg, always beg… and she was begging, begging for him to stop, _needing_ him to stop, and all had faded away…

Suddenly she crashed into something tall, and blinked. Looking up, she saw that she had walked into Boromir. He had stopped, along with the rest of the Fellowship, but she had not been paying attention and had kept moving.

"Sorry," she muttered, flushing. The Gondorian was looking at her strangely; she realized her behavior the past two days must have appeared extremely baffling. _Borogor would not have wondered at it,_ she could not help thinking.

"Are you alright?" Boromir inquired, sounding concerned. "Did you get any sleep last night?"

"A little," she replied, but did not meet his gaze. Yesterday, she had all but begged Aragorn not to give her watch duty while they were in the Mines, offering to stay up longer once they were out—he had granted her request, seeing the earnestness in her eyes, and did not even ask questions. Yet relief from that task had not made anything easier.

Gúthwyn shuddered as she recalled sitting bolt upright, her legs drawn to her chest and her entire body wrapped in all of her cloaks, unable to fall asleep in the suffocating darkness. Her breathing had been ragged and shallow; more than one member of the Fellowship, as they sat on watch duty, had asked her curiously if she was feeling ill. And when Legolas had done so, she had panicked, so much that Boromir had awoken beside her.

After fending off questions from the two of them, and apologizing profusely as she did so, Boromir had gone back to bed and Legolas had returned to his perch on a large rock. She had remained awake, now struggling with humiliation on top of her terror, and had not gotten so much as a wink of sleep that night.

Wishing to rid herself of the unpleasant and embarrassing memories, she glanced past Boromir to where Gandalf stood. The wizard had guided them through the Mines successfully thus far, with the occasional guidance from Gimli, but now appeared to have hit a snag. They were standing before three open doors, all of them leading eastward; yet the left sloped downwards, while the right one began climbing up; the middle one did not change its course, and kept a straight path.

"I have no memory of this place at all!" Gandalf exclaimed, staring at all of the choices in puzzlement. He held up his staff, but there was no writing upon the stone that might aid him. At length he sighed. "I am too weary to decide," he told them. "And I expect that you are all as weary as I am, or wearier. We had better halt here for what is left of the night."

Gúthwyn trembled at the thought, but she could not understand what the wizard meant by 'what is left of the night.' Here in Moria, there was no day—just everlasting darkness, never to be lifted or lessened.

"You know what I mean!" Gandalf said, as though he had read her mind. Which, Gúthwyn thought, recalling Saruman's powers, he very well might have. "In here it is ever dark; but outside the late Moon is riding westward and the middle-night has passed."

"Poor old Bill!" Sam sighed suddenly, glancing wistfully back to where they had come from. "I wonder where he is."

She did as well, and hoped that the beast had come to no harm, but at the moment she was more preoccupied with the choking blackness than the fate of a horse.

It seemed Aragorn was, also, for he said, "Gandalf, there is a door to your left; perhaps we might rest inside for the night."

The wizard turned to where Aragorn indicated, and so did the others. Merry and Pippin moved forward eagerly towards the stone door, relieved at the luring promise of a good night's sleep. But Gandalf stopped them with a cry.

"Steady! Steady!" He raised his staff and walked carefully passed them, pushing at the door. It swung open easily. "Steady! You do not know what is inside yet. I will go first."

The Fellowship and Gúthwyn filed in after him as he moved into what soon was discovered to be a small room. Right in the middle of the floor was a large gaping hole that had no discernible bottom.

"There!" Gandalf exclaimed, pointing to it. Gúthwyn winced at the sight of rusty chains spilling from it, thinking that one of the Halflings could have tripped into it without warning.

"One of you might have fallen in and still be wondering when you were going to strike the bottom," Aragorn told Merry sternly. "Let the guide go first while you have one."

Taking pains to avoid the hole, Gúthwyn stepped around the Nine Walkers and went further into the room. There was another Dwarven skeleton in here, but thankfully not one of the more mutated ones. It was sitting on a stone chair, and evidently had been killed without a chance to fight. Gimli noticed it as well, and bowed his head before speaking.

"This seems to have been a guardroom, made for the watching of the three passages." His voice shook as he talked. "That hole was plainly a well for the guards' use, covered with a stone lid. But the lid is broken, and we must all take care in the dark."

"Aye, let us make our beds against the far wall." Aragorn it was who had given the suggestion, and they followed his advice.

Gúthwyn unrolled her pallet in a corner, as far away from Legolas as possible, sandwiched between the Hobbits and the stone. She did not mind overmuch, since Merry and Pippin at least were cheery companions. Frodo, as of late, had been looking burdened by his task; Sam, who had a loyal heart, was tending to his master with ever-growing concern. She had not managed to get her way into his good graces yet—Sam seemed to have a preternatural sense of who meant Mr. Frodo harm, and though he was certainly polite to her, he did not view her in the favor that the other Hobbits did.

She had, of course, not yet attempted to take the Ring, and nor would she even think about it until they had left Moria. Running away into the wilderness was one thing, but running away into the endless dark of the Mines was another. She would not get five feet before the terror overwhelmed her.

Finishing setting up her small place, Gúthwyn settled onto her pallet and leaned against the wall, grimacing slightly as her back connected with the rock. Sometimes it hurt dreadfully from Haldor's punishments—she quivered almost without being aware of the action, remembering his cold hands pressing on her back—especially whenever she lay on it, or propped it against something.

An even deeper ache entered her as she thought of Borogor healing it, time and time again, no matter how furiously she had struggled under his ministrations, no matter how loud she had screamed in agony. She could only begin to imagine his hands touching her back, and wished that it had been for reasons other than him needing to wipe the blood away. If only it had been while they kissed, perhaps, or even just as they sat together with Hammel and Haiweth by their sides…

_Do not torment yourself so!_ she roared silently, folding her arms even tighter across her stomach. _He is dead, and there is nothing you can do about it! Nothing will change what happened in Ithilien!_

Almost impulsively, she reached for Borogor's bag and took the book of poems from it. Once more she immersed herself in "The Warrior," hardly seeing the words through a sudden blur of tears, yet not needing to know exactly what they said. All the same, she dug the wetness out of her eyes with a hard fist. _No crying,_ she told herself furiously. _You are already pathetic enough in the Company's point of view._

She sighed audibly, shrinking further into the wall and ignoring the protests from her back. A tiredness was overcoming her, though try as she might she still could not fall asleep. The Halflings to her left were already gone to the world, oblivious to all that was around them as their chests steadily rose and fell. Aragorn, Boromir, and Legolas were drifting off as well; only Gandalf remained, for he had watch duty that hour.

The wizard's outline was sharp against the blackness, for he carried with him his staff, which cast a faint light upon him. He was sitting on a rock just outside of the guardroom, staring at the doors and expelling small puffs of smoke from his pipe. Gúthwyn did not know him as well as she would have liked to. Even if she had not been on a mission for Sauron, she thought all that he had seen in his years would make an interesting tale, if he told but a tithe of it to her. She had always thirsted for stories of conquests and adventure, from the days of her childhood up to now.

Half an hour slowly crawled past. Gúthwyn was nowhere near getting any rest, and she put away Beregil's book and stood up. Wrapping the cloaks—all three of them, as she was feeling vulnerable without their combined protection, and strangely cold—about her, she moved outside of the guardroom to where Gandalf was.

He seemed to know that she was there, even though she did not announce herself and trod upon the ground lightly. "It would be wise for you to get some rest, young one," he said kindly, and despite his tone she bristled slightly at being called 'young one.'

"I could not get to sleep," she replied somewhat stiffly, and made her way over to the edge of a cliff that they had all been careful to avoid on their way up. A shiver ran through her as she gazed into the fathomless depths. "What is down there?" she asked.

Gandalf sighed. "Of that, it is best not to speak," was his answer. As she turned back to him, a cloud of smoke arose, so that she could barely see his face. "Only know this: The enterprising of the Dwarves awoke something that drove them from this place, and I hope to pass through the East Gate without encountering it. What the thing is, I do not know, nor do I wish to."

Neither did she, if it had even a wizard cautious of it. Gúthwyn now edged away from the sheer wall, coming back to where Gandalf sat. A strong surge of curiosity was coming over her. Here was her chance to get some answers to her questions. Not all of them, of course—_why had she made love to Haldor with Borogor's body barely cold?_—but the less complex ones.

"Gandalf," she started, hoping that what she was about to ask would not bring a suspicious light upon her, "The Ring… what is so terrible about it?"

He stopped smoking on his pipe and glanced at her. Suddenly she was acutely aware of his sword, Glamdring, though for the moment it was sheathed. Yet when he spoke, his words were not hostile. "Sit down," he said, gesturing to a space beside him, "for it is better to do so when hearing about such dark things."

She hesitantly climbed up on top of the rock, fearing no harm from him, but still feeling uncomfortable at their proximity. Even with Borogor, it had taken a long time for her to completely trust him.

Another cloud of smoke expelled from Gandalf's mouth; it came into Gúthwyn through her exposed nostrils, and she choked.

"My apologies," the wizard said as she coughed, taking one last inhale and putting the pipe away reluctantly. "I forget in my old age that there are some who have not become used to my habit."

Gúthwyn recovered slightly. "That is alright," she managed, trying to breathe deeply.

When there was no more smoke inside her, Gandalf asked, "You have already learned the tale of its forging, correct?"

She nodded. It was not the most familiar story to her, as all she knew was that Sauron had made it to gain control over the Free Peoples of Middle-earth, and had poured much of his power into it, but that did not concern her. She was beginning to wonder what exactly she would bring to pass when she returned the Ring to Sauron; what was it about this piece of jewelry that was so important?

"Then you will know that Sauron's life force is within the Ring, and the Ring's life force is within him. They are as one—without it, he is merely a shadow of his former self."

Gúthwyn shivered. She had been in the same room as the Dark Lord, and the black malice pressing in around her was something that she still had not forgotten. Nor was it hard to recall his Eye, branded on both her mind and wrist, neither to depart. It was near impossible to believe that this was a weaker version of the Sauron that had once been.

"What will happen if he gets the Ring?" she asked.

A grim mood came over Gandalf. "Then his strength will be multiplied, at least tenfold," he answered. "The Orcs, already rampant in number, will be more numerous than Elves and Men combined. All of Middle-earth will be under his dominion, and like as not all but Sauron's loyal servants shall perish. Those that survive his reign will be made into slaves, never to see the light of day again."

"E-Everyone?" she whispered shakily, thinking of Rohan, and of those she held dear to her heart.

"Everyone," Gandalf confirmed.

Gúthwyn was silent. She had not known, when she agreed to do this job, the consequences that her actions would bring. It had been a task so easy to accept, as long as it led to the freedom of Hammel and Haiweth.

"What about those he has granted pardon?" she wanted to know. The wizard glanced at her, and she saw that he did not understand her. "If he has let slaves go in the past, or if he—"

"No one leaves the Black Land, once they have entered," Gandalf cut her off, but there was a strange look in his eyes, as if he were suddenly wary of her. "Have you ever heard of someone doing so?"

Immediately she shook her head. "N-No, sir," she replied. "I was just wondering—"

"Then wonder no more," Gandalf said. "Not even children will he spare from his wrath. Though I am loth to speak of such acts, he would have them slaughtered before their mothers, and the wives before their husbands."

A cold sweat was coming over her. How could this be? Sauron had told her that if she returned with the Ring, he would release the children. _He will make an exception for them,_ she told herself firmly, but she could not restrain the fear swirling within her. All of Middle-earth will be under his domain, Gandalf had said. Where, then, would the children go? How would they be able to survive? And whom would Sauron force to submit to him? The people of Rohan? Her heart clenched as she imagined the Eorlingas, doomed to be slaves of the Dark Lord. All because she had brought the One Ring back to him, all because she had made a bargain…

_No!_ she screamed at herself. _That is not what will happen! Your people will not suffer!_

"Is there no escape?" she asked, though she was not speaking to Gandalf.

He answered anyway. "While Frodo lives, there is still hope." His gaze turned to the black chasm such a short distance away, and for an instant she thought his eyes were following something. "Yet if the Enemy captures him and takes the Ring, then only the Elves shall be able to escape; and only for a short while will the Grey Havens be open to them."

Gúthwyn paled. _What am I doing?_ she wondered in horror. _What have I sworn to accomplish, for the sake of Hammel and Haiweth? Is it truly them or the fate of Middle-earth, of my people?_

She was starting to tremble when Gandalf sighed, and got to his feet. "Come," he said to her, gesturing towards the guardroom with his staff. "I have kept you up for long enough, telling you dark things not meant for your ears; indeed, if you can sleep after hearing them, you shall need the rest for tomorrow."

As he led her back into the guardroom, she knew she would not be able to fall asleep tonight, even though the tiredness was starting to overwhelm her. She stumbled a bit as she returned to her pallet, and collapsed onto the ground. _Ilúvatar, what shall I do?_ she asked, but did not expect the great one to answer her, not when he was preoccupied with more important things.

Gandalf woke Boromir up, and she watched as the Gondorian went to sit by the door, while the wizard laid himself down and fell asleep shortly after. She envied Gandalf—envied them all—sorely for the rest that came so easily to him. In Isengard, she had endured much good-natured teasing for the amount of sleep she usually got, as she was often the last one to awake in the mornings, and the grouchiest about it. Borogor, as well, had said on more than one occasion that she could sleep through a war. Yet now it took forever for her eyes to close, and when they at last did her dreams were overthrown by nightmares.

_No, do not think of them,_ she told herself. For the second time that night, she reached for Beregil's book. _Think of Borogor instead._

So she read "The Warrior," for what must have been close to the thousandth time, but that was a mistake. She kept remembering him asking for a word, never managing to get the sentence out before they were attacked by Faramir and his Rangers. From there, it was a series of painful flashes. The second-in-command intercepting the arrow she had meant for the captain. Faramir, bending his bow and shooting. The arrow, flying towards Borogor. Borogor falling to the ground, and lying there peacefully as if in a dream. His lifeless lips beneath her own.

Gúthwyn did not realize that she was shaking uncontrollably, nor that her breathing was rapid and shallow, nor that the book had slipped out of her hands onto the pallet. But suddenly someone's voice pierced through her tortured recollections.

"Gúthwyn, look at me!" Then her shoulders were being shaken roughly; she gasped, trying to twist away, and saw Boromir in front of her.

"What are you doing?" she choked out, hastily wiping away the tears that had formed in her eyes.

He let go of her at once, but did not move back. "I glance over at you, and I see a pale, sweating, ghost of a figure. Yet you have been like this almost ever since we set foot in Moria. Are you ill?"

She shook her head, yawning slightly as she did so, and wishing that he would move away from her. At the moment, Cobryn and Théodred were the only two men alive that she would trust at such close quarters. "I am sorry for worrying you," she murmured, edging into the wall. "I am fine, really."

He snorted. "I was not born yesterday," he replied. "You did not sleep last night, did you?"

Miserably, she shook her head. "I cannot," she said.

"Why?" he pressed, leaning forward. "You need not suffer alone."

Gúthwyn was afraid that, if she told him half of what was bothering her, he might think her a pathetic creature. "It is nothing," she tried to reassure him.

He did not move, but raised an eyebrow. A sigh passed through her lips.

"Boromir, I am terrified of the dark," she whispered, and looked quickly down at her hands, not wanting to see his reaction.

For a moment, he said nothing, and thinking he would scorn her she curled into herself. _Why did I have to say anything?_ Inwardly, she berated her mind for being so foolish.

"Gúthwyn, get some sleep."

She lifted her head and stared at him. His tone had been kind, but she could not believe that he had brushed away her fears without so much as a word about them. "Excuse me?" she asked.

"I mean it," he said, looking rather uncomfortable. She saw that he plainly had no idea how to assuage her worries—a difference between him and Borogor. Borogor would have comforted her, placed his strong hands on her shoulders and firmly assured her that she had nothing to fear that night. He would have stayed with her while she tried to fall asleep, or would have placed the lantern beside her so that she did not panic in the darkness.

But the Gondorian before her had had little experience with women before. She did not doubt that he had enjoyed the company of a fair few at taverns or whatnot, but he was clearly more devoted to arms than the pursuit of a wife and family. As a result, he was at a loss for what to say to her, and settled for something that he would have said to a soldier who got cold feet the evening before battle.

"Boromir, I will not get any rest in this place," she told him. "The darkness is everywhere—have you never feared something so much that the very thought of it paralyzes you?"

He frowned. "I only worry for the safety of my brother," he replied. "The idea of him coming to harm brings a chill to my heart, but he is a grown man. He knows how to take care of himself. Indeed, I have not seen him for almost a year now."

"That is not the point!" she wanted to shout at him. She knew she could not expect him to understand, and was aware that he was trying to help her. But as long as there was this barrier between them, which she could not ever tear down for fear of jeopardizing Hammel and Haiweth's lives, he would never truly be able to know her thought.

Everything was getting so wearisome all of a sudden… She wanted the weights on her shoulders to be lifted and cast away, but they were pressing her down into the ground, refusing to yield. "Boromir, please," she said, and it shocked her that she had used the word with him, "go back to your duties. I do not want to waste your time."

"This is not a waste of my time," he replied stoically. "At the very least, try."

She did not have the energy to argue with him. "I will."

"Good." He finally stood up, and began making his way to his post. "Goodnight," he called quietly over his shoulder.

"Goodnight," she muttered back, then lay down on her pallet, curling herself up under the cover of her cloaks and a small blanket. Perhaps she could get some sleep tonight… What was it Borogor had used to get her to do so? On the aftermath of that horrible night with Haldor, when he had done things to her and she had done things to him that still made her vomit?

_No, _she thought frantically, _do not think of that night. Think of Borogor. What did he say?_

She remembered him holding her, telling her that everything would be alright, that she needed to recover for the children, and that she would start by getting some sleep. But instead of fast-forwarding her memories to how he had gotten her to go asleep, she paused them at his embrace, trying to recall exactly how his arms had felt around her… They were strong, firm, and safe. She knew that.

Her breathing began slowing. Borogor was holding her. She was free from all worry, and placed her head against his chest, listening to the steady beating of his heart. His hands were running softly through her hair, and he murmured soothing words to her as they swayed gently where they stood. _Sleep… sleep… you are safe with me…_

Less than five minutes later, Gúthwyn's eyes were closed, and when Boromir came over and looked down, she did not stir.

* * *

"Legolas." The sound of his voice being called shook the Elf awake, and he sat up quickly. Boromir was kneeling down next to him.

"Is it my turn already?" he asked, and the Gondorian nodded. Legolas sighed. He did not mind watching over the group while they slept, but in this dark place it was a weight on his heart. The others felt this way as well—he knew that Gúthwyn, already, had begged not to take watch duty while they were in the Mines.

As if they were both sharing similar thoughts, Boromir lowered his voice. "Will you make sure nothing happens to Gúthwyn?"

Legolas glanced at him. "What do you mean?"

The Gondorian turned, and pointed to the woman's pallet. "Do you see that tiny lump in the corner? Smaller than even the Halfling's shapes?"

He nodded, narrowing his eyes in confusion. "Is that… her?" he asked doubtfully, then got up to have a closer look. Though his footsteps already made no sound upon the stone, he went carefully, having no desire to wake her up. He stopped moving when he was a yard away from her, then glanced down. His eyes widened.

The blanket over Gúthwyn had been dislodged; now, he could see that she had curled herself into such a small ball that it was scarcely larger than what a child could have done. Her frame was visibly trembling—the movements were small, but he saw them clearly all the same—and beads of perspiration were forming on her forehead. She was clutching tightly a small book, one that he had seen her with several times.

He stepped back in amazement, returning to where Boromir stood. "Do all mortal women sleep like that?" he asked, but even as he spoke he knew what the answer would be.

"No," Boromir replied, then looked back at Gúthwyn. "She did not get any sleep last night," he added. "Do not tell her I told you this, but she is afraid of the dark."

Legolas nodded. "I suspected as much." Most of the Company had not noticed anything off about Gúthwyn once they entered the Mines, but he knew enough about human posture, thanks to Aragorn, to know when they were frightened, and when they were happy or sad, among other things. She was positively terrified; one did not need a wizard to figure that out.

Boromir sighed. "Well, I am going to turn in," he said. "All I ask is that you…" He paused, frowning. "I do not really know what I would have you do, but I pray that you will at least look over at her once every ten minutes or so."

"I will," Legolas promised. The Gondorian thanked him, and went back to his pallet. Within moments, he was asleep.

Legolas walked past him, avoiding the hole, to the door, leaning against the suspiciously stained frame and gazing upon the Fellowship. Gandalf lay on his side, muttering quietly to himself on occasion; next to him was Aragorn, on his back with his hands folded across his chest, in the manner of the very Elves whom had raised him. Legolas had met the Man before the council—at first, he had assumed him to be dull-witted and uncouth, but his impression of the human was very much mistaken. He had never known a more skilled tracker, nor a fiercer warrior. The two of them had formed a friendship that many marveled at.

A small came to his face at memories of their times together, then became tighter as his gaze turned to Gimli. He had no personal quarrel with the Dwarf, but his father had often told him of the ancient feud between the Elves and Dwarves. There had certainly been enough tensions between the two races at the council; his own opinion of Gimli was rather low, as the Dwarf had been unnecessarily rude to him in Rivendell.

At the thought of Rivendell, his eyes fell on Gúthwyn. For the life of him, he could not figure the young woman out. He could remember their first meeting vividly; the terror and fury on her face was so naked, so profound and shockingly real, that he had never seen the likes of it before. It was beyond him to understand why. Speaking to her was futile; she spurned all of his efforts, her reactions stingingly cold, and went out of her way to avoid him.

To add to his confusion, there was Haldor. She had called him by that name several times, always with utmost fear and revulsion upon her—no matter how many times he patiently corrected her, she still persisted in doing so, most often if he took her at unawares. He did not know anyone by the name of Haldor, nor could he tell if the person she confused him with was an Elf or Man. And if it was an Elf, how had she met him? And what had happened that would make her so tense around him?

One thing was for sure: He would have to be extremely careful around her, so as not to earn any more hatred than he already had. The incident before they began ascending Caradhras was firmly implanted in his mind; he could recall easily the terror fueling her struggles against him, and did not doubt that she would have screamed had he not clamped his hand over her mouth. He regretted the action sorely, as it must have seemed malicious in intent to her, but there was nothing else to be done.

Legolas sighed as he gazed over at Gúthwyn. Somehow he had to find a way to apologize to her, though he did not know what he had done. He feared that her mistaking him for Haldor had inexplicably ruined what might have been a polite acquaintance, and even if he could not understand why, he wished to remedy that however he could.

_I will speak with her when we leave the Mines,_ he decided. _I will set this whole business right._

After all, he reasoned, what was the worst that could happen?


	61. Drums In the Deep

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Fifty-Nine:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Fifty-Nine**

When Gúthwyn awoke, blinking confusedly and trying to remember where she was, the first thing (or person, rather) she saw was Boromir. Through her blurry eyes, she could see him leaning against the wall some three yards away from her. No one else was in the vicinity.

"Good morning," he said when she stirred. "Or shall I say good evening?"

She sat up and rubbed her eyes, instinctively drawing her knees to her chest. "What is going on?" she asked. "Where is everyone?"

"Outside," Boromir replied, gesturing with his hand. "It was thought that someone should keep an eye on you."

Gúthwyn frowned. "I do not need protection," she retorted, and her tone was harsher than she meant it to be.

"Peace," Boromir said, raising his hands slightly. "No insult was intended."

"How long have I been sleeping?" she pressed him, wondering why no one had shaken her awake.

"Nearly a day," the Gondorian answered, and he seemed rather perplexed. "Gandalf has still not decided which passage to take… Do you often sleep so long? I do not remember this when we traveled together."

"Sometimes." She got to her feet, suddenly cold, and wrapped the cloaks around her. The Company had evidently moved their things out of the guardroom; she began packing her few possessions, handling Beregil's book carefully. When she was done, she hoisted the bag over her shoulder, and started making her way towards the door. Boromir followed her. Before she stepped outside, she turned to him. "Thank you for enduring such boredom for my sake," she said, inclining her head.

"Your welcome," replied Boromir, "though I did not find it dull."

For a moment she paused, wondering if there was some hidden meaning in his remark; then she went out to where the rest of the Fellowship was. For the most part, they were seated in silence. A few of them glanced up at her as she passed among them.

"You slept even later than Pippin!" Merry exclaimed when she sat down next to him, leaning her back gingerly against a boulder. "We were about to make a bet on how much longer you would be in there."

Beside him, Pippin grinned. "I would have won," he said proudly. "Merry was leaning towards two hours; I said one and a half."

Gúthwyn rubbed the last of the sleep out of her eyes, and then said, "Well, I am glad you had some entertainment, at any rate, even if it was at my expense."

"Indeed!" Pippin exclaimed before turning to Merry. "Gandalf has not moved since we came out here," he said to the older Halfling, a small frown coming upon his face. "Are we lost?"

"No," Merry replied; yet there was some hesitation, which Pippin immediately picked up on.

"I think we are."

Sam leaned over and shushed them. Their voices had carried throughout the passage, so that all could hear them, though they spoke in whispers. "Gandalf's thinking!" he hissed.

Gúthwyn apologized quietly, but the two Hobbits continued. "Merry?" Pippin muttered.

"What?"

"I'm hungry."

Merry sighed in annoyance, and they fell into silence.

After a time, Gúthwyn contemplated withdrawing Beregil's book, but she decided against it: The Hobbits were a curious folk, and would not consider her privacy an issue of importance, should they wish to know about it. Instead, she occupied her mind with thoughts of the children.

She hoped that Dîrbenn was taking good care of them; the man despised her, but he had a soft spot for Hammel and Haiweth. It was hard not to—only the Easterlings had ever caused them harm. And Borogor had given the soldiers all a warning on her very first day; again, with the exception of the Easterlings, none of the men would dare disobey his orders. Furthermore, after she had slain Burzum, she doubted that anyone would want to even go near the children.

No, she thought in grim relief, there would not be any trouble with Hammel or Haiweth. All she had to do was get the Ring back to Sauron… but even that was beginning to sound much more difficult than it had been when she left Mordor.

"Ah!" Gandalf said suddenly, and she started, twisting around to look at where the wizard sat upon a rock. However, now he was standing, and heading to the left-hand passage. "It is that way!"

"He's remembered!" Merry breathed as the Fellowship scrambled to their feet. They started walking after the wizard, who hastened to correct him.

"No, but the air does not smell so foul down here." They began making their way down the passage, and Gúthwyn agreed: The strange smell that had been with them throughout the Mines was now lessened. "If in doubt, Meriadoc, always follow your nose."

For awhile, the Nine Walkers and Gúthwyn walked in silence. Ever so often she put her hand to her mangled cheek and rubbed at it—a strange prickly feeling had been bothering her ever since Caradhras, and it rarely left her. She supposed it was something in the air, which did not feel fresh in the least. There were the occasional bouts of worry she had over it, especially when she remembered dear old Abaudia cautioning her that there was a chance of infection, but she prayed that it was not so, especially as three years had passed so far without any harm.

Her musings were interrupted when they came to the end of a wide flight of stairs, and a draft of air met them. Gandalf, whose staff was now dark—she had not even noticed the light going out, and twitched nervously—said then:

"Let me risk a little more light."

A glow started emanating from the tip of the staff, at first nearly blinding Gúthwyn. Her eyes slowly adjusted, and grew wide with amazement.

Before them lay an enormous hall, one that Meduseld could have easily fit into ten times or more, carved entirely out of stone and sprawling before them with no end in sight. Gigantic pillars reached up from the ground to ceilings that were hidden in blackness, so that the place seemed immeasurably tall. At the flaring up of Gandalf's light, multitudes of shadows scattered and fled, so that she shivered, and was brought back to what was going on around her.

"Behold!" the wizard was saying. "The great realm and Dwarf-city of Dwarrowdelf."

"Now there's an eye-opener, and no mistake," Sam sighed in awe, craning his neck up to try and see the roof of the hall. Gúthwyn could not have shared his sentiments more. Yet she wondered how this could be called a city, if it was completely devoid of inhabitants. Or was Gandalf referring to the moving shadows? Could Dwarves climb? She doubted it.

Without a word, the wizard started leading them down the hall. It was lucky that he knew where they were going; she would have easily gotten lost amongst the innumerable pillars. As it was, they moved forward slowly, in case something should be missed, and she found her attention wandering to the darkness about them. Boromir was beside her, and she moved closer to him out of habit, wanting his firm frame as a protection between her and whatever lay beyond the circle of light.

The Gondorian said nothing, as usual, but gave her a smile. He was a chivalrous man, but had no romantic interest in her—she could tell from the way he spoke to her, which was as he would a man, and the way he looked at her. He saw only a friend, someone to speak with to pass the time. Which made her wonder: If she was so adept at interpreting his mood, why had she failed so miserably with Borogor? How had she not realized that they were both in love with each other?

Her own steps were slowing, but unexpectedly Gimli's picked up. She started, and glanced over at him; the Dwarf had veered off to their right, and was running into a small chamber off of the great hall. A single ray of sunlight shone down into the room, illuminating what appeared to be a stone grave. Even from a distance, she could see the debris and skeletons littering the place. Her instinct immediately told her that nothing good would come out of this.

Gandalf seemed to have the same mindset. "Gimli!" he called, but the Dwarf did not heed him. So they followed, jogging after him into the chamber. Great moans and wails were emanating from his mouth, which they could not see: He had sunk to his knees before the grave, and bowed his head so that his helmet touched the cold stone.

Awkwardly, Gúthwyn watched Gimli, whose misfortune she did not understand, but Boromir stepped hesitantly forward and put a comforting hand on the Dwarf's shoulder. Gandalf moved closer as well, though he went to read the words upon the grave. They had been written in runes that were common in Middle-earth, but in a strange language that Gúthwyn knew nothing of.

Yet the wizard could read it, and he translated it out loud for the rest of them. "Here lies Balin, son of Fundin, lord of Moria," he said gravely, and Gúthwyn's heart twisted. _Gimli's cousin!_ she thought. _An ill fate, to have his final resting place be in forgotten, forsaken Moria._

The air was heavy with silence as Gandalf continued. "He is dead, then." He stepped away from the tomb. "It is as I feared."

Gúthwyn did not know what he had feared, but she suddenly wanted to be far away from here. The darkness was starting to press in on her.

"We must move on," someone muttered behind her, and she turned to see Legolas leaning towards Aragorn. Her heart beat wildly in her chest. "We cannot linger."

Aragorn's glance showed that he was of like opinion; Gúthwyn glanced back at Gandalf, hoping he would tell them to get out of the Chamber and continue moving through the Mines. They were almost at the East Gate—she would finally be able to sleep without such terror.

But Gandalf did not show any signs of wanting to leave. Pippin now held his hat and staff, and the wizard had picked up an old book from the death clutch of a withered Dwarf, and was brushing the dust and grime off curiously. She clenched and unclenched her fists impatiently as he opened it. Surely there could be nothing interesting about this volume.

"They have taken the bridge, and the second hall," Gandalf said then, and for a moment she panicked, thinking he was telling them that enemies had followed them into Moria. Then she realized that he was reading from the book, which must have been a journal of some kind. The knot in her chest lessened very slightly.

All of the Nine Walkers were listening intently as their guide squinted at the pages, trying to read the smudged and hastily scribbled writing. "We have barred the gates, but cannot hold them for long. The ground shakes. Drums… drums in the deep."

Gúthwyn's cheek began prickling once more, though nowhere near as much as the hairs on her body. She felt herself trembling slightly. Drums in the deep… the soft slapping of footsteps upon the ground, as Sharkû drew closer to where she was in the cage…

"We cannot get out." Gandalf's voice washed over her, reaching into the very corners of her being, making her cringe in fright. "A shadow moves in the dark."

Shadow… the dark… Haldor… _Sauron…_

"We cannot get out."

Her breathing was rapid. She could not get out, could not escape. The walls were closing in on her and Haldor was laughing, laughing, grabbing her by the wrists… No, now her vision was turning back, and she could see Boromir, staring at her concernedly… But then he faded, and Haldor was there, this time with Legolas…

"They are coming."

The two Elves drew closer.

"Gandalf!" someone cried, and she blinked. Haldor and Legolas had vanished, replaced by Boromir; the Gondorian had taken a step towards Gandalf, and was gesturing towards her. "Can you not see her eyes?"

She had forgotten to put the top scarf on last night, and now regretted the error. Gandalf was watching her closely; she felt as though she were being examined, and did not like it one bit. Hastily she tried to reassemble her expression so that it was blank, but the memory of the darkness was still all around and inside… She shivered.

A loud slamming sound brought her back to her senses. Gandalf had shut the book.

At that moment, there was a noise, small at first, but then beginning to clash horribly, as metal against stone. The eyes of everyone in the chamber fell upon Pippin. Bored, the Halfling had reached out towards a skeleton sitting on a well in the corner. His touch had caused the thing to start falling, along with a bucket and the chain that connected both of them. The ringing sounds it made as it fell were awful; she had to furiously scream at herself not to put her hands over her ears.

Gradually, the grinding noises faded, until all was silent. The Company visibly relaxed, and she breathed a shaky sigh. Her nerves were never going to survive this place.

"Fool of a Took!" Gandalf exclaimed, annoyance masking the wariness in his eyes. He strode forward and snatched both his hat and staff from Pippin, who looked stricken at the consequences of his actions. "Throw yourself in next time and rid us of your stupidity!"

Pippin gulped and looked down; then he froze. Gandalf did as well. For just then, the faint pounding of drums echoed up to them, gradually increasing in volume, until they could all hear it easily. At first, Gúthwyn thought it was the stone recalling the Dwarf falling down the well, but when the noise did not stop, a sinking feeling entered her stomach. And was that her imagination, or were those shrieks?

"Frodo!" Sam suddenly cried, and they all turned to see the Halfling withdraw the sword he carried at his belt. Gúthwyn's eyes widened: The blade was glowing blue. She knew what that meant.

"Orcs!" Legolas hissed, and then Boromir leapt forward to the door. He peered out. Almost immediately, the whistling flight of arrows could be heard, and several of them landed in the wood dangerously close to his face. The Gondorian retreated a few feet, and made to shut the doors. They were heavy, though, and moved slowly.

Aragorn dropped his torch, and turned back to her and the Hobbits. "Get back!" he yelled, gesturing. "Stay close to Gandalf!"

The Halflings hastened to follow his orders, but she did not. Though she was terrified of this place, she held no fear for the Orcs whom she had encountered so many times, who could not hurt her when she had a sword in her hands. And so she unsheathed her blade, taking a moment to lament the poor quality of it before reflecting that these Orcs probably had even worse weapons.

Some fifteen feet ahead of her, Aragorn and Boromir succeeded in shutting the doors, strengthening them with a bar that fell across them. For a moment, Boromir leaned against the wood frame. "They have a cave troll," he said, his tone as if this were only a mild nuisance, rather than an enormous monster.

Legolas went to the wall, where there were spears and axes hanging, no rust upon them though they could not have been used for years. He began tossing them to the two Men, who used them to further blockade the door. When all was done, they moved back to where Gúthwyn stood. As they did, Gimli's voice sounded from above her. She turned around to see him settling on top of Balin's tomb, giving his axe a few experimental turns. "Let them come!" he exclaimed, a gleam in his eyes for the thrill of battle. "There is one Dwarf yet in Moria who still draws breath!"

"Gúthwyn," someone said, and she turned to see Boromir next to her. "You should get back with the Hobbits," he told her. "Gandalf will protect you."

She knew his words were not meant to belittle her, but she bristled at them all the same. "I need not fear," she told him, injecting somewhat of a haughty tone in her voice that was most unbecoming of her person, "when I have a sword in my hands. Now, Boromir, you will see that the women in Rohan are taught just as well as the men, though we do not go to battle and thus are not renowned."

The grunts and shouts were right outside the doors, which were already beginning to shake. Boromir nodded. "So be it," he said, and withdrew his own sword. It glimmered in the pale light shining down upon Gimli. Aragorn and Legolas had taken out their own weapons as well, Aragorn shifting on his feet as he held his bow up and Legolas drawing back his own, the Elf perfectly still as he watched the doors.

Gúthwyn stared at them, too, and felt the beginning waves of excitement wash over her. She had always delighted in battle, though her experience was limited to innumerable sparring sessions, one duel, and two ambushes. Her hands were still, and not trembling for once, but adrenaline was racing swiftly through her veins. She longed to see her sword plunging into the black flesh of an Orc, to hear its agonized screams as its dark blood splashed out onto the floor. Here was her opportunity to inflict damage on them for all they had done to her and everyone she loved, especially those still in Isengard.

The doors did not last long. Soon holes were appearing in them, along with the tips of arrows that burst from their bows and clattered harmlessly to the far wall. Legolas and Aragorn's arrows were by far the truer, and every shot that they took at the Orcs resulted in one of the creatures falling back. She could not tell how many of them there were, but she hoped not too much. The cave troll would be enough of a problem to deal with.

At that moment, the doors yielded, and swung forward to reveal a multitude of Orcs howling as they came upon them. In the amount of time it took them to rush forward, Aragorn and Legolas had killed a few more. And then the Orcs had crashed into their lines—the battle had begun.

Gúthwyn's surroundings soon became a whirlwind of friend and foe as she fought fiercely against the Orcs, slaying one almost immediately and then turning around to surprise a second with a beheading. After that, she could no longer tell the difference between the Orc that she had just killed and the next one that she was attacking. They all blended together in a scene of destruction, one that she felt remarkably at ease in. Here, there was no worrying about her fears—it was just kill, or be killed.

Suddenly there was a great noise of wood splintering. She glanced up, having for the moment some free space around her, and saw the cave troll. It was nearly three times her height, and definitely more than three times wide; it carried only a mace, but that was more than it needed. Legolas shot an arrow up at it, hitting the creature's shoulder. For all the good that it did: The troll swatted at it like it was a bothersome fly, then roared and set its sights on Samwise Gamgee.

Gúthwyn did not have a chance to see what became of the Hobbit, for at that moment an Orc rushed towards her, and she was flung back into the battle. For another minute or so she fought, and when she next had a chance to look up she saw that the cave troll had abandoned Sam and turned its attentions to Legolas, who was fighting Orcs on a ledge several feet above the floor.

A small part of her hoped that the Elf would be killed as the cave troll growled and swung its mace at him. Yet such an outcome did not seem likely as Legolas easily ducked the chain once, then a second and a third time. Finally, one of the troll's swings was so powerful that it caused the entire chain to wrap around the pillar. In what Gúthwyn could only grudgingly describe as an incredible feat of skill and balance, Legolas leaped onto the chain and ran along it to come to a halt on top of the troll. Before the creature was even aware of what had happened, the Elf took his bow and shot it directly at the rough hide covering its head.

An Orc attacked her then, and she only heard the cave troll's agonized roaring as she relieved her assailant of its arm and then stabbed its stomach. The next two minutes passed by swiftly, until she became aware of a horrified silence falling upon the chamber. Finishing off one of the few remaining Orcs, she turned around to see Frodo falling to the ground, a spear protruding from his shoulder. The cave troll was before him, grinning stupidly.

A sudden roar of fury echoed through the chamber. Sam had come alive, desperately attacking the Orcs, enraged that anyone had dared to hurt his master. Merry and Pippin simultaneously jumped off of the ledge Legolas had been on, landing on the cave troll's back and starting to hack at him with their swords. The battle was redoubled as the Fellowship fought with a vengeance, seeking retribution for Frodo, who lay as if dead upon the ground.

Gúthwyn prayed that he was not, though it certainly would have made her task easier. She had grown to respect the quiet Halfling, who had not asked for this burden, and who had only taken it up to prevent others from coming to harm. He never said much to her; but then again, he only spoke easily to Gandalf, Aragorn, and Sam. From the others, even Merry and Pippin, he often concealed his thoughts. Yet the image of him collapsing, though not evoking the rage in her as it had Sam, was enough to make her fight even harder against the Orcs.

She had killed the last one in her range of sight, and was turning around to find more when something shook the entire ground. For a brief instant, her legs wobbled. Then she regained control of them, and glanced over to see the cave troll lying face-first on the stone floor. Legolas was lowering his bow in the silence that followed.

Then Aragorn, who must have been knocked over as well, scrambled to his feet and raced to Frodo. The rest of the Fellowship hastened after him; Gúthwyn helped Pippin, who had been flung off of the cave troll, to his feet as she went. Together, they made their way over to where the Company had gathered around Frodo.

"Oh, no," Aragorn whispered as he put his hands on the Halfling's shoulders. Gently, he rolled Frodo over.

The gasp that shook the small figure shook them, as well. Before their very eyes Frodo sat up, clutching at the wound in his shoulder (someone must have pulled the spear out, as it lay abandoned beside him), much to the astonishment and delight of Sam.

"He's alive!" he exclaimed, and Frodo tried to grin weakly.

"I'm alright," the Halfling panted, rubbing where the spear had pierced and looking faint, but very much in one piece. "I'm not hurt."

"You should be dead!" Aragorn marveled, reaching out to prod the wound. His face was slowly regaining color. "That spear would have skewered a wild boar!"

Gúthwyn saw Frodo shifting uncomfortably in his sitting position, looking around uneasily. Gandalf did not miss it, either.

"I think there is more to this Hobbit than meets the eye," the wizard murmured, and slowly, Frodo pulled at his tunic. Gúthwyn caught the gleam of… _silver_, and leaned forward. There was another shirt beneath his normal one; it shone even in the dim light and nearly dazzled her eyes.

"_Mithril_!" Gimli breathed, moving closer and staring in amazement at Frodo. Gúthwyn blinked. So this was _mithril_, the legendary substance Gimli had spoken of while they walked through the Mines. According to him, Moria did not achieve its wealth from gold and jewels, nor iron, but this type of silver that was light as a feather, yet harder than the hardest steel armor. And now that there were no more places that mined _mithril_, its worth had multiplied tenfold.

Indeed, Gimli recognized its value exceedingly well, though his eyes did not betray greed as they were upon the shirt. "You are full of surprises, Master Baggins!"

No longer entranced by the silver, Gúthwyn stepped back, glancing around at the carnage and wondering when they were going to leave. Despite the Orcs' sound defeat, she still felt the hairs on her body standing up; she shivered as she looked into the shadowy corners, and turned to Gandalf to suggest a hasty retreat. _The East Gate must be close by now,_ she thought.

But just then, the Company as a whole froze. The sounds of multitudes of Orcs coming towards them, shrieking hideously as they drew ever nearer, told them that unless they did not move soon, they would become trapped as before. And this time, there would be no escape.


	62. Shadow and Flame

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty:**

Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty**

For a brief instant the Fellowship and Gúthwyn were frozen in horror, listening to the rapid falling of the Orcs' feet and their jeering calls. Gandalf was the first to shake himself out of this state. "To the Bridge of Khazad-dûm!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet.

They followed him as they led him out of another door in the chamber, the back door, and into a vast hall. It was not as big as the one that marked the entrance to Dwarrowdelf, as Gúthwyn thought she could see both ends of it, but it was still enormous all the same. They began sprinting towards the opposite end—as they went, she heard thousands of feet running after them; and not just behind them, but around them as well.

Soon she began to see Orcs appearing by the hundreds, climbing up from holes in the stone or down from the countless pillars in the hall. Gandalf pushed the Company faster, but with every second the creatures gained precious ground on them. Tremors of fear started racing through her, then spiked sharply when she saw about a hundred or so Orcs converging on them from the front. They were trapped.

There was nothing to be done. Gandalf halted, and so did the others. The Orcs swiftly formed a tight ring around them, screeching unpleasantly and baring their teeth as well as their weapons. Some of the Fellowship withdrew their own, along with Gúthwyn, but any struggle would be futile. Terror was gripping her relentlessly—not for her own fate, which, if the Orcs realized she was a woman before killing her, would certainly be worse than the others'—but for what Haldor would do to Hammel and Haiweth when she did not return.

_I cannot die here!_ she thought in horror. She could not fail to complete her mission on account of lowly Orcs. However, the creatures were pressing in on them. Nothing short of a miracle would make them go away… she closed her eyes and prayed.

Suddenly, there was a low grumble, originating somewhere back in the direction they had just come from. The Fellowship froze, but the Orcs immediately began jabbering in fear, looking around skittishly. Within seconds, they were scattering frantically, their panicked cries echoing through the hall as they crawled back up the pillars and lowered themselves down the fissures.

Gúthwyn blinked. _The Valar must be on my side,_ she thought in relief, and thanked them fervently.

But when she glanced over at Gandalf, the wizard's head was bowed, and he was holding onto his staff tightly. The others had turned back towards the door they had just run out of; a strange light, fiery in appearance, was illuminating it. She squinted, trying to figure out what it was. Yet it hurt her eyes, and before long she had to look away.

"What is this new devilry?" Boromir muttered.

Gandalf sighed heavily before lifting his head and gazing at the light. "A Balrog," he said, and there was another deep growl. "A demon of the ancient world."

Gúthwyn glanced uneasily around the Fellowship. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli's eyes were wide, but the rest of them clearly were unable to imagine that which the wizard spoke of. Neither could she.

According to Gandalf, though, they did not need to. "This foe is beyond any of you!" he exclaimed. "Run!"

For the second time that day, the Company and Gúthwyn tore after their guide. The Orcs that had been so ferocious just minutes ago did not return to assault them, and they passed without event through a second set of doors. There was a short passageway directly after, but Gúthwyn could see the end of it clearly. Boromir was ahead of the group; he was the first one to emerge from the tunnel.

Then he stopped short, and started bending back and forth, waving his arms frantically. At first, Gúthwyn did not understand what had made him behave so; then Legolas leaped forward and wrapped an arm about the Gondorian's chest, yanking him back. The two of them fell to the ground, and as Gúthwyn drew closer she saw that there were a set of stairs that ended sharply with a steep fall into a dark abyss. A shudder ran through her as she thought of Boromir tumbling down into the blackness, never to be seen again. Mercifully, her friend was not harmed—just shaken. He quickly got to his feet, extending a hand to Legolas only to find that the Elf was already standing.

Gúthwyn glanced over to where Boromir had almost fallen. Her eyes widened as they lit upon a vast, bottomless pit, only broken by flickering torches and the flight of stairs that they were on. These steps twisted and turned, a marvel to gaze at, until they went through an arch in a cliff face and disappeared. Further in the distance, she could see what looked like a long slim bridge, completely spanning the black gulf.

She was shaken out of her awe by both a threatening growl from an alarmingly close distance and the Fellowship starting to run again. She fell into the line behind Boromir as they went swiftly yet carefully down the steps, which curved sharply about almost immediately. Rather than walk on all the steps, Legolas jumped down and landed lightly in front of her, much to her dismay.

It was not long after the stairs changed direction once more that they came to a gap in the stone and halted. If any of them had kept going, they would have tumbled down into the forgotten reaches of Moria. There was only a three-foot difference, but it could still be perilous if they did not treat it properly.

Nimbly, Legolas leaped over the gulf, landing easily on the other side. He turned towards them and gestured to the wizard. "Gandalf!" he called.

At that moment, there was another grumble. This time, stones fell from the ceiling; Gúthwyn winced, but luckily none of them came near the Company. Knowing that haste was of the essence, Gandalf jumped across the gap to land beside Legolas. No sooner had he regained his footing than an arrow whistled by him, just missing his hat and disappearing into the black chasm.

Aragorn and Legolas whirled around, each withdrawing their bows. Orcs had crept around to ledges on either side of the Fellowship, as far away from them as possible while still being within arrow range. Gúthwyn was forced to duck as another one came straight towards her.

"Gúthwyn!" someone exclaimed, and she looked over to see Legolas motioning for her to leap over. For a moment she hesitated, not wanting to close the distance between her and the Elf. But as an arrow narrowly missed Frodo's foot, she held her breath and jumped over the gap.

For a heart stopping instant, she glanced down and saw nothing but black, stretching out endlessly and mercilessly beneath her. Then it was replaced by stone, and she landed shakily upon it, wobbling slightly and almost stumbling into Legolas. The Elf steadied her with his hands, and she wrenched from his grasp. Her cheeks were burning with red embarrassment.

Unwilling to look at Legolas then, who had taken up his bow again and was firing more shots at the Orcs, she turned to see Boromir taking Merry in one arm and Pippin in the other. With a great cry, he leaped across the gulf, the stunned Hobbits flying through the air with him; and not a moment too soon, for the second his weight had left the stone a good two feet of it crumbled and fell down into the abyss. Now, only Frodo, Sam, Gimli, and Aragorn were left.

As Boromir landed beside her, letting go of the shaken Halflings, Aragorn picked Sam up by the waist and threw him across the gap, arrows flying harmlessly past him. Sam arrived safely on the other side, not even crashing into anyone. He only looked mildly shocked. "I told Mr. Frodo trouble would come of this," he muttered.

Gúthwyn glanced back to see Aragorn reach for Gimli, but the Dwarf stopped him with a raised hand. "Nobody tosses a Dwarf!" he growled, his voice loud enough for them all to hear. He bent his knees and crouched low; then, with a deep roar, he sprung across the gap. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as he landed too short, with only his toes finding purchase on the stone.

The Dwarf fell backwards, but Legolas reached forward and grabbed at his beard. Gimli yelled in pain. "Not the beard!" he shouted, but Legolas kept pulling until the Dwarf had been tugged safely onto the stone. Gúthwyn sighed in relief. It would have been an ill day indeed if one of the Company had perished.

Yet now she did not see how Aragorn and Frodo would manage to get over. As she watched, more stone began crumbling, this time right under Ranger and Hobbit's feet. Aragorn lunged forward and shoved Frodo out of the way, but then he himself fell as the rock disappeared beneath him. His hands closed about the remaining steps, and he managed to pull himself up.

Gúthwyn's insides were knotting anxiously as Aragorn reached Frodo. It did not escape her that if the Hobbit fell over the edge, the Ring would go with him, and then all hope would be lost. Suddenly she regretted not staying by his side.

As if to augment her anxiety, a large boulder crashed down onto the section Frodo and Aragorn were standing on, creating another gap. They were now on an isolated stretch of steps, which were beginning to rock backwards and forwards unpleasantly.

"Steady!" Aragorn cautioned Frodo. "Hang on! Lean forward!"

The Halfling did as he bid, and slowly the steps began leaning towards the rest of the Fellowship. Gradually they drew closer, and Gúthwyn knew she was not alone in her fear for the two of them. Yet then Legolas called, "Now!" and as the steps crashed onto their own section, Aragorn and Frodo leaped over the crack to land with the rest of the Nine Walkers and Gúthwyn.

Without even a pause to marvel at the miracle, Gandalf led them on once more. As she ran, Gúthwyn could hear the stairs crashing down into the chasm. Aragorn and Frodo had left them with barely any time to spare. _Thank the Valar_, she thought for the second instance that day.

Not too long had passed before they went through the arch and into yet another hall. Gúthwyn's eyes watered as they fell upon a gigantic wall of flame, reaching up from just beyond the door leading to the bridge and expanding across the entire room.

"If we had come by the main road down from the upper halls," Gandalf said as they jogged to the bridge, "we should have been trapped here. Let us hope that the fire now lies between us and pursuit. Come! There is no time to lose."

And so they pushed themselves faster, but already the distance to the bridge was proving farther than they had thought. As they struggled to reach it, the beating drums returned. Gúthwyn could hear them pounding, the echoes resonating deeply against the stone, seeming to proclaim _doom, doom, doom._ Once again, her Warg bite prickled painfully.

"Now for the last race!" Gandalf cried. The Fellowship running after him were worn and tired; it was now, or never. "If the sun is shining outside, we may still escape. After me!"

They followed him as always, terror of pursuit racing through their veins. Soon, a multitude of footsteps could be heard, along with the shrieks and jeers that Gúthwyn recognized to be the Orcs'. Yet they were from the other side of the firewall—by sheer luck, Gandalf had taken them the 'wrong' route.

Boromir noticed this, and even laughed as the Orcs brandished their weapons in vain. "They did not expect this," he chuckled while they ran. "The fire has cut them off. We are on the wrong side!"

"Over the bridge!" Gandalf yelled in response, stopping and waving them on. "Fly!"

Gúthwyn obeyed him for perhaps thirty feet; then she turned around to see why he was not moving anymore. The rest of the Fellowship halted around her, and they stared in shock. A shadow had emerged from the flames, at first barely visible, but then so large that it nearly blocked out the light. And then it roared—it was the very thing they had heard in the chamber, and next on the treacherous stairs.

She gaped as the Balrog emerged, its presence alone raising the temperature to unbearable heights, its shape evoking horror in even the most stalwart of men. It was barely describable. The only features she could hope to explain were its wings, which stretched as vast shadows across the hall, and its fiery whip, which it cracked and thrashed menacingly. Gandalf stood alone before it, his staff emanating a strange blue glow, and his figure not nearly as impressive.

"Move!" Aragorn yelled then, and they heeded his advice, making the final sprint towards the bridge. Gúthwyn glanced back over her shoulder as she ran, and saw that Gandalf was following them. She was relieved that the wizard had not foolishly remained before an enemy who was so much greater than he.

Of course, she did not know then that the Balrog was a Maia, just as Gandalf himself was, and that the two of them were thus on even footing. Instead, she ran after Boromir over the bridge, which had been fashioned so that a group attempting to cross it had to go in single-file. It took enormous willpower not to look down into the black chasm below them, but she was more afraid of losing her balance and falling; she kept her head straight, staring fixatedly at the bridge's end.

She reached it shortly. The landing was a small platform of stone, with steps leading up from it onto a higher platform. Trailing after them with her eyes, she saw that there was a final set of stairs, and beyond that… sunshine.

_We are free!_ Gúthwyn thought in joyous ecstasy, then turned around to make sure that everyone had crossed the bridge. She froze.

Gandalf was standing right in the center of the stone expanse, his staff held out before him and Glamdring unsheathed in his hands. The Balrog approached him, flicking his whip, growling as he went.

"You cannot pass!" the wizard exclaimed, such a fell tone in his voice that for a moment Gúthwyn felt twinges of nervousness creeping through her. The Warg bite suddenly sent shoots of pain into her body, and she clamped a hand over it before looking back.

"Gandalf!" Frodo cried, but it was useless. Gandalf remained where he was. The blue light from his staff was turning white, its radiance in the darkness so amazing and blinding that Gúthwyn blinked several times.

"I am the servant of the Secret Fire," the wizard intoned, his voice so low that she almost could not make sense of it, "wielder of the flame of Anor. The dark fire will not avail you. Flame of Udûn!"

Gúthwyn started upon hearing the name of the place she had lived for three years. The Balrog reacted to it as well: A flaming sword appeared in the creature's hands, and it swung the blade upward in a graceful arc and then slashed it down towards Gandalf. The wizard raised his now glowing sword, and to Gúthwyn's shock Glamdring proved the stronger. The Balrog's blade was shattered, falling away in molten fragments.

"Go back to the Shadow!" Gandalf called as the Balrog hissed in displeasure. He was unmoving, refusing to let the dark creature pass over the bridge. Even when the Balrog cracked his whip threateningly, he did not even wince. Rather, he held both his sword and his staff up in the air. Every fiber of his being seemed to burn with an inner flame, one that she could not see but pained her eyes anyway.

The wizard's arms tensed as he yelled, loud and clear, "_You shall not pass!_" With that, he swung both his staff and sword down, implanting them in the bridge at his feet. To Gúthwyn it was as if an invisible barrier had been set up between him and the Balrog, though she could not explain why. Yet the Balrog felt no difference—the creature stepped forward, raising its whip and intending to smite Gandalf for the final time.

The bridge cracked beneath its feet. The Fellowship and Gúthwyn watched as the Balrog, roaring, began falling into the abyss. Glorious relief was spreading through her. They were safe. All that could be seen now was the swiftly disappearing length of its whip.

Gandalf's shoulders heaved in a sigh, and then he turned around to make his way back to them. At that moment, a small tongue of flame leaped up and wrapped itself around the wizard's ankle, dragging him with a heart-wrenching tug off of the bridge.

_No!_ Gúthwyn thought in a panic as the wizard just barely managed to cling onto an uneven edge in the stone. Beside her, Frodo ran forward, but Boromir caught him by the waist and dragged him back.

"No, no!" the Gondorian shouted, but Frodo did not heed him.

"Gandalf!" he yelled, and his cry echoed throughout the entire space, miserable and terrified. Gandalf looked up at him, and then glanced around at all of them. Gúthwyn froze, knowing exactly what he was going to do. She could read it in his eyes.

"Fly, you fools!" he bade them, and then let go of the rock. The last she saw of Gandalf the Grey were his eyes, sure and determined as they always had been; and then he was gone, gone, the blackness of Moria swallowing him whole as it had done the Balrog.

She stood there, numb, Frodo's anguished cries resounding in her mind, but unable to do anything. Gandalf was dead. Their guide. He who had led them steadily on their road, keeping them out of the direst peril, was now forever lost. Even the knowledge that her mission for Sauron was now by far easier did not lessen the shock or pain. She was actually sorry that Gandalf had perished.

At that moment she became aware that the Fellowship was moving once more. Even though they had lost the wizard, they still had to keep going: Arrows were beginning to assail them again. So she ran after Legolas, inwardly loathing their proximity, towards the wonderful light that was tantalizingly close…

A burst of white blinded her. Gasping, she stumbled out into the fresh morning air, sinking to her knees and suddenly feeling nauseous. Her eyes watered in agony as she inhaled and exhaled rapidly, coughing as she did so. The sun was burning her forehead, even through her cloaks… She needed to take them off.

She did so, fumbling with the clasps in her frightening blindness, casting them to the side when she was done. Slowly at first, then painfully fast, her vision returned. She was on a stretch of rocky land, with mountains everywhere she turned, except for far off in the distance, where there was a green and gold haze. The Fellowship had staggered out of the East Gate along with her. Some now stood, bearing their grief in silence; the Hobbits were lying upon the ground, tears running down their faces.

Not wanting to be viewed as weak, Gúthwyn hastily got to her feet, stretching and gazing around at the lands. This place was not familiar to her at all. What would they do, where would they go, now that Gandalf was gone? Aragorn might be able to lead them, but to what end? Once again, her cheek twitched in response.

She put a hand to it. Why had the mangled skin been bothering her recently? Was it possible that it was becoming infected? She remembered that one of the men in their tent, in Mordor, had passed away because a wound he received in practice had turned a pale green color. Borogor had tried to tend him, but it was to no avail. The cut itself had not been serious, but it had not been discovered until too late.

Soon, she would have to look at it. There was water in clear, cold streams a short walk away; an image of the wound would be reflected in the water. But she had to find a way to do it so that no one could see her face. If they did… she did not want to think of it.

Her attention was drawn by Gimli. He was fighting, tooth and nail, against Boromir, who sought to restrain him from running back into the Mines. Gúthwyn could not work up any emotion; she watched, as though she were not even in the scene, as though she were an outsider. Her eyes flicked over them, and onto Legolas. She could tell from his face—for once, his expression was not concealed—that this was as surreal to him as it was to her.

_If you were not Haldor,_ she thought, _we might have been friends._ She turned away and bowed her head.

"Legolas, get them up."

The order came from Aragorn. It was time to move on, then. Gúthwyn stooped down and gathered her cloaks, folding Borogor's and the one from Arwen and placing them in her bag. She kept on Chalibeth's… Chalibeth. How long had it been since she had thought of the girl? Not just mourned, but _really_ sat down and _thought_ about her? Only fifteen years and she had died. Never to experience anything beyond slavery. The taste of free air. The sight of someone who was not weighed down by life's burdens. A man's touch… not a touch like Gríma's, but a touch like Borogor's…

She had to clamp her hand on her mouth to stop the cries from escaping her. Why did the people she love all perish? First Éowyn, then Éomer, then Chalibeth, then Beregil, and finally Borogor. Who would be the next to go? Who could possibly be left?

"Gúthwyn!"

She turned. Boromir was calling her. Aragorn had just helped Sam to his feet; the Fellowship was ready to start again.

"Are you alright?" the Gondorian asked, drawing closer. His eyes searched her own. "It grieves me to see you so," he said.

"Do not worry for me, Boromir," she replied, and managed a half-hearted smile that he could not see anyway. "I will manage, as I always do."

The corners of Boromir's lips turned upwards in the ghost of a grin. "You are independent," he told her, "yet do not forget that there are people who care for you."

_And they are all dead,_ she thought. "I will be fine."

"Boromir! Gúthwyn!"

They looked over to see Aragorn watching them. "Are you ready?"

Gúthwyn nodded, and started making her way over to the Ranger. His eyes were narrowed, and he held his hand over them as he surveyed the mountains. "The Lady Galadriel will welcome us into her realm," he said. "Which is well, for the Orcs will not be deterred from their pursuit."

"The Lady Galadriel?" Gúthwyn asked, confused. She had not heard of such a woman.

Aragorn looked at her. "Of the Golden Wood," he replied. "Wherein lies the center of her domain: Caras Galadhon, the city of Elves."

She froze. "E-Elves?" she whispered, edging slightly away from him. "We are g-going _there_?"

"They will give us succor; perhaps, if we are lucky, we shall receive the advice of the Lady herself. I do not doubt that she will take an interest in our quest."

"She is an _Elf_?" Gúthwyn asked in horror. Her eyes were widening.

"Gúthwyn," Boromir muttered, but Aragorn responded before the Gondorian could say anything.

"Yes, she is an Elf," he confirmed, with a stern tone in his voice. "And you would do well to show her the respect you deny Legolas."

Gúthwyn started. "Do not speak to me about him," she hissed, suddenly trembling. "You know nothing of what you talk so confidently about."

"Neither do you," Aragorn replied calmly. "Your first sight of an Elf was at Rivendell. Nothing have you learned of their culture."

She wanted to shake the Ranger, to scream that she had learned more about them than he had. It would certainly shock him to hear all that she knew… but that part of her past was a secret. It was too humiliating. Yet she could not stop herself from saying: "And what makes you an expert on my history? You do not know what I have seen, unless you practice mind-reading in your spare time."

"I do not have to practice mind-reading to know that you have seen no Elf in Rohan," Aragorn said simply.

He had her stuck, and they both knew it, although he thought it was for a different reason.

"Now if we are done, let us move on." Aragorn stepped away from her, and turned to the others. "Come!" he called. "If we hurry, we shall be in Lothlórien before nightfall."


	63. A Slip

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-One:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-One**

The sun was just beginning to start its downward journey. The Company had been traveling silently for a few hours, each wrapped in their own thoughts and misery. Despite the promise of safety, lying in the trees of Lothlórien not two leagues away (they could now clearly see the woods, which did nothing to lighten Gúthwyn's mood), there was no relieving of the grief that burdened them.

Gúthwyn herself was preoccupied more by a sudden tiredness, one that had her stumbling slightly on a couple of occasions, and the disconcerting pain from her cheek. Absent-mindedly, she rubbed the bite, wincing when the touch only made it worse. Though at the moment they were fording a shallow stream, and had done so several times already, she had not had the opportunity to examine her reflection and find out what was ailing the wound.

"Watch your feet!" Aragorn called from ahead of her. He had been leading the Company, now that Gandalf was gone. For almost all of their march, she had watched his back, trying to decipher his emotions, with utter lack of success. He was a closed book to her, just as Hammel often was. She could sense that he was not sure whether to trust her; oftentimes, she thought that he saw holes in her story, ones that no one else picked out, ones that she herself was not aware of.

_I will have to be extra careful around him,_ she thought as she lightly stepped from one stone to the next, avoiding the freezing cold water. _Especially after the fiasco in the Mines._

There, her fear of the dark had made her far more vulnerable than she liked to admit. Aragorn had not said anything when she asked—pleaded, more like it—to not have watch duty while they were in Moria, but there was more to the Ranger than met the mind, and more went on in his head than a casual onlooker would see. She knew he was piecing together information about her, and she had yet to hear a verdict.

She was so preoccupied with her musings that she did not pay attention to the next stone that she needed to step on. Consequently, she missed it and tripped, losing her balance and falling into the stream with a loud _splash._ She landed face-first in the water and choked, immediately flinging herself back up for air.

Aragorn turned around and saw her; he swiftly backtracked, coming closer to her. But it was Boromir who reached her first.

"Are you alright?" the Gondorian asked from above her, and she glanced up to see him, one foot on a stone and the other in the stream, offering a hand to her. Behind him, the other Walkers halted.

"I am fine," she tried to say, but the next second a wild panic came over her. When she had drawn breath to answer, nothing had entered her mouth. The scarf wrapped around her was soaked in water, and it was suffocating her.

Frantically, she threw back the hood of her cloak and reached for the knot of her scarf: She had tied it so tightly that it could not simply slip off. Terror hampered her movements as she fumbled with the fabric; her lungs were exploding, she was not getting enough air…

Finally the knots were undone. Gúthwyn yanked the scarf off and gasped, leaning over and drawing deep breaths. Every gulp of fresh air was like a drought of life. She could feel her body quivering uncontrollably. _Calm down,_ she tried to tell herself as she took another shaky breath. _You are fine now._

Yet no sooner had she thought that then she gasped again. A searing pain was radiating from her Warg bite, so agonizing that she nearly cried out. Biting her lip, she put her hands over the wound, but her touch only made things worse. This time, a muffled choking noise escaped her.

"Gúthwyn, what is it?" Boromir had placed his hands on her shoulders and was pulling her up. She tried to resist; she _had_ to get the scarf back on before he saw her cheek. But before she could say anything, he had crouched down so that their faces were aligned with each other's. Over his shoulder, she saw Aragorn watching the two of them.

In response, she cringed away from him and pressed her hands even harder onto the wound. Another gasp came from her mouth.

"Gúthwyn, what are you doing?" Boromir asked, looking perplexed. He reached for her hands, and before she could back away, he had pulled them off of her face.

For a moment, he froze, staring at the wound in horror, his mouth opened slightly. His hands were still holding hers.

"By the Valar…" he whispered at length, his chest rising and falling unsteadily as he let go of her hands. With one of his own, he placed a gloved finger on the mangled flesh.

Blinding pain seared through her, and she yanked herself away from him. "Stop!" she exclaimed hysterically, then looked down so that he could not see her face.

"Aragorn," she heard him say, and stiffened. "Aragorn, look at her!"

The Ranger's footsteps grew louder, and with a splash she saw his boots land next to Boromir's. A hand reached out and lifted her chin.

Like Boromir, Aragorn's eyes widened. "This is infected," he said, and he did not touch the wound, but turned her head to the side so he could examine it better. Gúthwyn's face burned.

"It is nothing," she said. He ignored her.

"How did you get this?"

This was part of what she had been afraid of: The questions. Her mind scrambled to come up with a plausible excuse for what she had been doing with a Warg in the first place.

"How did you get this?" Aragorn repeated, his grip on her tightening slightly. A fresh wave of pain raced through her as she answered.

"It is a Warg bite."

He let go of her and frowned. "A Warg bite?"

She nodded, but did not tell him what she knew he wished to hear. "I got it three years ago," she muttered, and made to get up.

Aragorn stopped her, pushing his hand down on her shoulder. "What have you been treating it with?"

"Nothing," she said shortly.

"Nothing?" he asked in astonishment, taking her chin again and looking at the bite. "Surely your family had access to some herbs, especially if you say you are from Edoras."

She did not care to tell him that the only family she loved was dead; she chose, also, to ignore the last bit of his comment. "It is no matter," she said, and this time wrenched free from his touch and got to her feet.

Yet Boromir and Aragorn were not going to let her escape so easily. They rose almost immediately after her, and she had no time to move away. "On the contrary," Aragorn said, "it is important. Do you know what happens when a wound becomes infected?"

She remembered vividly the man's screams as he died in their tent, despite the many hours Borogor had tended to him; she remembered clamping her hands about Haiweth's ears so that she was not frightened. The man had become delirious within a day or two, unable to eat or drink anything. A small tremor of fear ran through her as she nodded.

Aragorn sighed. "When we arrive in Lothlórien, you will be tended to. In the meantime…"

He started rummaging in his pack. Boromir left them, going to the rest of the Fellowship, no doubt to tell them all that had transpired. Gúthwyn refused to even glance in their direction, choosing to watch Aragorn instead. The Ranger withdrew a handful of crumpled green leaves.

"_Athelas_," he told her; she did not recognize the name. "Kingsfoil," Aragorn explained, though he might as well have started speaking in a foreign language. "I put these herbs on Frodo's shoulder when we stopped not too long ago—do you remember? Their powers are rather of cleansing than healing, but they may help."

Gúthwyn knew that there was truth in his words. Even though she had been standing away from the group while Aragorn tended to Frodo, she had detected the sweet, fresh scent of the plant. It was almost like the air on Caradhras: Pure, untainted, not yet inhaled by any living creature.

As she recalled this, Aragorn crushed the leaves quickly. "Hold still," he told her, and took her chin with one hand. She cringed, but otherwise did not move. Then she inhaled sharply as he rubbed the leaves over her cheek, closing her eyes and trying to swallow her pain.

His hands came away from her, and she looked back upon him. The clear air still lingered around them. "Will they truly heal me?" she asked, referring to the Elves. A shudder ran through her at the thought of placing herself in their hands.

"Yes," Aragorn replied, "though you be friend or foe, they will have pity."

Her eyes narrowed. Was there more to that comment than there seemed?

He met her stare evenly. "Come," he said, and turned to the rest of the Fellowship. "We must hasten now!" he called. "Hurry!"

Gúthwyn did not look back at the Company. She knew they would want to see her face; it was her full intent to deny them of such an opportunity. Bending down, she retrieved the discarded black fabric; she squeezed the water out and hastily wrapped it back around her mouth, placing the hood on top of the ensemble.

With a sigh, she started after Aragorn.

* * *

"Stay close, young Hobbits!" Gimli whispered, his eyes darting to and fro amongst their surroundings. Just a minute or two ago they had entered the Golden Wood, which in itself had caused Gúthwyn's entire body to tense. Aragorn was leading them deeper into the forest, which was actually rather wholesome to walk through. The trees were slender, and as a result large quantities of light were filtered down upon them.

She listened with half an ear as the Dwarf continued. "They say there is a great sorceress that lives in these woods—an Elf witch of terrible power. All who look upon her fall under her spell… and are never seen again."

Though his words were most likely fables, stories told to frighten young children, Gúthwyn shivered all the same. She did not know what to expect of this Lady Galadriel, and found herself unwilling to go forward anymore. Yet she had to: Already she could feel the infection taking its effect. A constant pain was firmly rooted in the wound, having overcome the _athelas_ to trouble her ceaselessly. She was terrified that the delirium would arrive soon after.

Ahead of her, Frodo also seemed reluctant to keep moving. He had stopped, his back upright and stiff, looking around at the woods.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked quietly, and the Halfling shook himself out of his reverie. Gimli carried on his conversation as if there had been no interruption.

"Well," he started, glancing at the trees confidently, "here is one Dwarf she will not ensnare so easily. I have the eyes of a hawk and the ears of a fox!"

He stopped short as an arrow was pointed less than a foot away from his face. Gúthwyn's breath caught in her throat as Elves emerged from the deep recesses of the forest, though seemingly out of nowhere, and surrounded the Company, their bows nocked and aimed directly at them. She panicked as one of them stood before her, and skittered away from his golden hair and cruel eyes.

Immediately, someone pushed her back. A whimper escaped her lips as she turned in a slow circle and realized that she was completely surrounded by Elves. They said nothing, but stared at her. Their eyes did not blink.

"What are you doing?" she gasped, but all that came out was her ragged breathing. Once more she spun around, but there was no end to them. Her heart started racing, and she suddenly felt both dizzy and nauseous. Uncontrollable shivers were running through her body; she swayed violently and wrapped her arms tightly about herself. _What is going on?_ she wondered in horror.

Still they did not move. "Stop it!" she choked out, and this time the words managed to leave her mouth. "Stop!"

She whirled around, but Haldor did not budge. There were so many of him… What was he doing? "Stop," she whispered again; his bow remained pointed at her. Why was there more than one of him? "Stop!" she shrieked. Her chest heaved up and down as the air left her body… Haldor's eyes were pinned on her…

He was saying something, but there was a roaring noise in her ears and she could not hear it. The glare from his eyes was suffocating her—she was losing air swiftly. Then all was black, spinning perpetually, and she was falling into an endless abyss.

Her limp body hit the ground.

* * *

"Gúthwyn." Someone's voice entered her ears and she groaned, stirring slightly. Where was she? What time was it? What was going on?

"Gúthwyn." Now the voice was more persistent. Two light hands were laid on her shoulders.

Her eyelids were gradually beginning to flutter. The ground beneath her was strange: It was not smooth like a floor, but uneven and bumpy, and rather soft. A gentle light was playing across her face, and the smell of flowers and trees was in the air. She breathed deeply before opening her eyes. They fell upon Haldor.

She whimpered in terror, sitting halfway up and scrambling away from him. "W-w-what are you doing?" she choked; to her horror, tears began forming in her eyes. Frightened that he might see them, she turned her head and rubbed at them frenetically.

"Are you alright?" he asked concernedly. His golden hair fell over his face as he spoke, and she cringed.

Her breath was coming in rough gasps. "No, Haldor, please, leave me alone!" she begged him. "Do not make me—" She could not finish the sentence.

He frowned, and sighed. "Gúthwyn, I am Legolas," he told her.

His words hit her like a slap to the face. And like a slap to the face, they shook her out of her panic. She blinked rapidly, and saw that he was right: Legolas of Mirkwood was crouched before her, not Haldor of Mordor.

The knowledge sent a horrible rush of cold humiliation through her. He had just heard her beg… She leaped to her feet. "What are you doing?" she asked once more, but this time there was a furious tone in her voice. It both magnified and shook when she saw the number of Elves gathered around them, watching curiously. Some of the Company were glancing over, and Aragorn was moving towards them alongside yet another Elf.

Legolas stood up. "You fainted," he explained quietly. "I was trying to wake you."

"What are _they_ doing?" she snarled, gesturing towards the other Elves. They still held their bows, though the arrows were now pointing at the ground.

"They are marchwardens," Legolas told her. "They surrounded us because we were strangers trespassing on their land. That is their duty, to ensure that no one enters Lothlórien without the Lady's consent."

She barely had time to glare at him before Aragorn had arrived. "What happened?" the Ranger questioned, glancing back and forth between the two of them.

"She fell unconscious for a moment," Legolas said, "and just awoke."

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. "The infection cannot already be taking its toll," he murmured, and looked at her keenly.

Gúthwyn avoided his gaze uncomfortably. Now everyone's eyes were on her, even if some of the Fellowship were not aware of what was going on. She folded her arms across her stomach and asked, "What are the Elves doing?"

"We are to escort you to the city of Caras Galadhon," one of them said, and she jumped slightly. It was the Elf whom Aragorn had been walking with. He was evidently the leader of the group, and he carried himself tall; his head was raised, and he looked upon her haughtily. "The Lady Galadriel will see you tomorrow evening."

Her eyes narrowed, but she was too afraid of the surrounding Elves to say anything.

"Gúthwyn, I will look at your wound when we stop for the night," Aragorn told her. His forehead was creased. "Make sure to get some rest afterwards."

He might as well have asked her to go back into Moria and live there. She would get no sleep with the Elves around her.

"Now come," the Elf said, glancing around at all of them. "Your Company is waiting, as is the Lady of Light."

"What is your name?" Gúthwyn blurted out as he made to leave. For a moment he paused; then he turned back to face her.

"Haldir," he answered.

She cringed. It was too close to Haldor's name for comfort, though the two did not look alike.

A hand gripped her arm. "Remember my words to you earlier," Aragorn whispered in her ear, then straightened and let go of her.

She watched in resentment as the Ranger started following Haldir. _I will not respect an Elf for as long as I live,_ she thought. _Haldor and Legolas have taken care of that._

Nor could she trust them. And as none of the Fellowship knew what she had been through, she was alone, just as she had been since she left Mordor. Alone.


	64. Doubt

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Two:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. And now… WOOT! Finally out of Mordor! From here on out, I will be using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Two**

Gúthwyn winced as she leaned against the bark of a tree, hissing slightly as her mangled back connected with the rough surface. Before her, Haldir, Aragorn, and Legolas were conversing with each other in Elvish—she had not known the Ranger could speak it—none of which she could understand. It was night in Lothlórien, and despite the peaceful breeze blowing over her, she did not feel at ease at all.

Haldir had led them for a few hours deeper into the Golden Wood, along paths that only Aragorn had traversed before, along with the rest of the Elves who were escorting them. The walk had been a nightmare for Gúthwyn. She had had to remain close to Boromir the entire time, every breath coming up short, every step forward harder than the last. The Gondorian had noticed that something was off about her, but he chose not to press the issue, and for that she was thankful. She did not need any more attention after the Mines.

Yet, for once, the Elves were not the foremost problem in her thoughts. Her Warg bite was steadily doing worse. It was surprising that it could become infected after three years, but she knew that a number of factors were likely contributors. For one thing, Abaudia had never been able to heal the wound properly. She remembered several occasions, on the way to Mordor, when she had had to wipe off strange fluids secreting from it. Furthermore, now that she was out of the Black Land, she had kept the scarf over it at all times, preventing any air from reaching it. This, she knew now, had been a mistake, but there was nothing to be done about it. And she was certainly not going to take the scarf off while she was surrounded by the Company and a host of Elves.

She sighed, and resisted the urge to slide to the ground. Before her, Gimli's expression was on the verge of foul, much like her mood.

"So much for the legendary courtesy of the Elves!" he growled, and Aragorn, Legolas, and Haldir stopped their conversation to look over at him. "Speak words we can all understand!"

Haldir's eyes flared, and though Gimli did not move, Gúthwyn shivered. "We have not had dealings with the Dwarves since the Dark Days," he replied, smoothly, but with a bite of impatience.

"And do you know what this Dwarf says to that?" Gimli snarled, and then a string of Dwarvish tumbled from his mouth, none of which sounded very polite.

Aragorn waited until the tirade had subsided, then gripped the Dwarf's shoulder. "That was not so courteous," he muttered, and Gúthwyn blinked. How many languages did this Man know?

Haldir chose to ignore the exchange. His eyes wandered around the Company and settled on Frodo. The Fellowship watched as he approached the Halfling, who looked rather nervous to be standing in the shadow of the marchwarden. "You bring great evil here, Ringbearer," the Elf spoke harshly. "You can go no further."

With that, he turned away. Gúthwyn froze, as well as the others. Her mind was racing with all of the things the Elves might do with them. Would they keep them in this tree, this _flet_ that they had climbed earlier, for a long time? Or would they throw them in prison, if they were indeed bringing evil? Her pulse quickened, and then she did sit down on the ground.

Aragorn glanced over at her, then followed Haldir farther down the _flet_. The two of them began speaking in rapid Elvish. Aragorn was gesturing with his hands at both her and Frodo; she caught both of their names, as well. Shifting uncomfortably at the scrutiny, she tried to stand back up, but a sudden tiredness overwhelmed her and she decided against it.

She was struggling with herself not to close her eyes when Boromir sat down next to her. "Hello," she said weakly, yawning as she did so.

"How is your wound?" he asked, looking at her cheek; there was nothing to see, however, as she had it securely wrapped in the scarf.

She shrugged. "I have had it for three years," she replied. "A few more days will not make a difference."

"Aragorn said that it was infected." Boromir looked at her in surprise. "Are you not afraid?"

She was, a little, but she would rather die—which she had a chance of doing, if the wound was not healed in time—than admit it. "No," she answered, and then decided to change the subject. "What do you think of this place?"

He glanced around, and sighed. "It is strange: I believe Haldir is the only one of them who speaks the Common Tongue. I tried to ask one of them, before, where we were going, but he merely looked at me and did not respond."

Gúthwyn recalled, then, how she had become panicked and spoken to the Elves surrounding her; obviously, they had not understood her. A shudder came over her as she thought of how foolish and pathetic she must have looked.

Boromir was watching her closely. "You do not like the Elves, do you?"

She shook her head. "I cannot stand them," she whispered. He frowned.

"Why? Legolas is an Elf, yet—" Then he paused. "You do not get on well with him, either."

"No," she replied, and once again changed the subject. "Do you think Haldir will let us see the Lady Galadriel?"

Boromir glanced at her, and she knew that her manipulations had not been lost on him. "Aragorn is still speaking with him," he said nonetheless, and they both looked over at where the Ranger was arguing with Haldir. "I will not think highly of him if he refuses, in light of your condition and the danger that pursues Frodo."

In spite of herself, she yawned. "Sorry," she apologized as she did so, the word stretching out. "I am a little tired."

"Perhaps you should get some—" Boromir started to say, but at that moment Aragorn and Haldir separated. As Haldir walked over to Frodo, Boromir got to his feet; Gúthwyn did likewise, although her motions were slowed by fatigue.

"You and the others will sleep here tonight." The Elf's words were brisk. "In the morning, I will take you to Caras Galadhon, where you shall be seen by the Lady Galadriel."

Frodo swallowed and nodded, looking relieved. Gúthwyn was not: Being trapped in a tree with other Elves was an idea that made her hands tremble. This was before Haldir turned to her and moved closer.

"Aragorn says you have an infected wound."

In response, she took a step away from him. "Y-Yes," she muttered.

"We can give you no herbs here. If you should fall ill, you are Aragorn's responsibility."

She longed to snap that no one needed to take care of her, but she remembered the Ranger's words about being courteous and was silent.

"There is nothing you can do for her?" Boromir asked.

"No," Haldir said. "When we arrive at Caras Galadhon, she will be tended to. Until then, she will have to wait."

Then the Elf turned to Aragorn. "Your Company may set up their things here now, but no one is to leave the _flet_. From the Earth, we hear rumor that the Enemy is abroad, maybe even in this very forest."

"Is there no escape?" Frodo cried, glancing around wildly as though he expected Orcs to be hiding amongst the tree boughs.

"The foul creatures you left behind will not be deterred by trees," Haldir replied, anger in his voice, "but when our arrows are upon them, they will think twice before coming into the Golden Wood."

Frodo was silent.

"Farewell," Haldir said, and at his words the other Elves began moving to the ladder that had brought them up into the _flet_. "We will be patrolling this area; if you need our assistance, call quietly!"

With that, he turned and lightly climbed down the ladder after the rest of the marchwardens. The Company and Gúthwyn were on their own for the night.

"Gúthwyn," Aragorn said, and she glanced at him. "I would like to see your wound before you go to sleep."

Merry and Pippin were watching her curiously, but she merely nodded, and drew closer to the Ranger. "Can you do it away from the others?" she muttered.

"As you wish," he replied, and took his pack from where he had laid it on the floor. Together, they walked over to where he had argued with Haldir.

"What made him finally give in?" she wondered aloud.

"What is important is that we are welcome here," he said, and then withdrew a rag. "Sit down."

She did as he told her, but was relieved when he crouched down as well.

"This is getting worse." Aragorn's grim voice accompanied the rag gently prodding at her cheek, and she winced.

"How do you know?" she asked him, trying to conceal the nervousness in her voice. She wondered now if her unexpected tiredness was a precursor to delirium.

He pulled away the rag, and she saw a filmy, green substance on it. "You said you got this from a Warg?"

She nodded, determinedly looking away from the rag.

"How did that happen?"

Her fists tightened. "It was an accident," she ground out, and then fell silent.

Aragorn's eyes held her own, and for an instant the grey seemed to smolder with a hidden strength. She blinked, and looked away. Her mind was weak, and she knew she would gain nothing in this unspoken contest of wills.

When she glanced back at him, his eyes were narrowed, and she knew that she had lost some of his trust. "An accident," he repeated, and got to his feet. For a moment, he looked down at her. Then he walked back to the Fellowship. She twisted around, placing her hand over the wound, and saw him settling next to Legolas. Her blood boiled, and hastily she took the scarf and wrapped it around her mouth.

_Now it is time for some sleep,_ she thought, and removed her pack from her shoulders. A few seconds later, her pallet was spread out on the ground. She lay on it, covering herself with a blanket, and curled up into a tight ball. The knowledge that the other Elves were not going to be watching her sleep had made her more relieved than she cared to admit. Although Legolas was still on the _flet_, he was at the opposite end.

Exhaustion such as she had not known for a long time was creeping over her. She wanted to read Beregil's poems, but when she reached for them the motion took too much effort. Yawning once more, she brought her arm back, wrapping it around herself and sighing heavily. The Warg bite was throbbing slightly. _Rest will do it some good,_ she told herself, but tendrils of worry were slipping around her. The sight of Aragorn's green-stained rag emblazoned itself in her mind and would not let go.

The last thing her mind's eye saw before falling asleep was the Ranger's stern face, watching her distrustfully.

* * *

Legolas stretched his legs out as he leaned against the tree, breathing deeply and feeling his body blissfully relaxing. Lothlórien was a beautiful place; everything here was as though it had been the same for thousands of years, never changing, not needing to be improved or modified. The trees were humming in contentment, and the breeze gently teasing his face was untainted and pure.

It was a great relief that Haldir, his brothers Rúmil and Orophin, and the other Elves had found them. With their guidance, they would be guaranteed arrival at the city of Caras Galadhon. Alas that it was winter! In the spring, the realm of the Lady Galadriel was carpeted with a blanket of golden leaves, for in that time the trees were beginning to blossom with yellow flowers and fine greenery. Yet even now, woods were enchanting to behold.

To his right, Aragorn sighed, though he knew the Ranger's mood and detected a trace of restlessness and inner worries. "What troubles you, my friend?" he asked, turning to look at the Man better.

Aragorn exhaled, running his fingers through his hair. His grey eyes were focused on the opposite side of the _flet_, and Legolas followed them to see Gúthwyn, lying fast asleep on her pallet.

"I do not know what to make of her," the Ranger said quietly. The rest of the Fellowship had long passed into the land of dreams, but there was no reason to speak without caution.

Legolas glanced at his friend in surprise. "I thought no one could conceal their purpose from you," he replied, "save a wizard or an Elf, of which she is neither."

"I do not even know why I find myself doubting what she says," Aragorn replied, sighing again. "Yet something seems off about her."

For a moment, Legolas watched Gúthwyn's rising and falling back, wondering what Aragorn meant. "Off?"

"I do not know how to explain it well," Aragorn said, looking frustrated. "But… have you seen her weapons?"

Legolas nodded. "They are of strange make," he commented. "I know next to nothing of the Rohirric culture, but that is not how I expected them to craft gear… In fact, the quality seems poor."

"And nothing like what the Rohirrim use," the Ranger muttered. "I lived amongst the people for a time, and fought for them under Thengel, father of the current king Théoden. They decorate their weapons with horses, embellishing them onto the blades as well as the hilts and sheathes. Yet there is no trace of any of this on her sword or bow. In fact—" he lowered his voice so that Legolas actually had to lean closer "—they look to me Orkish, or I am a Hobbit."

Legolas felt his eyes widen. "Are you saying that—"

"I am saying nothing," Aragorn replied, "only that I am doubtful of the truth in her words. But then I remind myself that she was attacked by Orcs. If she bested them, perhaps she took one of their weapons. A bow I could understand; but why the sword? She must have had her own, otherwise she would have perished in the assault. Would it be possible for her own to break, or the blood to rust the blade? Then again, the latter cannot be: She practices with her sword nearly every night, when she thinks we are all asleep. It is highly unlikely, therefore, that she does not know how to care for a weapon."

Legolas listened to his friend trying to solve the problem. For himself, he did not know what to think. "She does not like me at all," he said carefully.

Aragorn looked at him. "I have not heard her say a single kind thing to you since we left Rivendell."

"I think that might be my fault," Legolas admitted, recalling their first meeting. "I caught her off guard one morning, and she has distrusted me ever since."

"That is a flimsy reason to loathe a person," Aragorn replied. "Indeed, I use 'loathe' lightly."

Legolas frowned, remembering when she had fainted earlier that day. He had glanced over to see her whirling around, crying out in distress as the Elves held her at arrow-point. Haldor's name he had caught in her speech just seconds before she fell to the foliage.

"Furthermore, it does not make sense to me that Théoden would send a woman to gather news, regardless of whether he needed all of his men inside his realm." Aragorn had moved onto another mystery, and Legolas did not want to return to the previous subject. He had decided long ago not to tell anyone about her terror of him, which was far greater than her hatred; nor would he say that she often thought he was Haldor. It was beyond him what the reason for these things were, yet he did not want to single her out by calling attention to them.

"Lord Elrond believed her," he pointed out instead.

Aragorn shook his head. "Elrond spoke to me about her before we left. He said: 'Keep an eye on her, for there is more to her than meets the eye, and I am not entirely sure that what lies there is harmless to you or your quest.'"

"To the quest?" Legolas asked in bewilderment.

"I do not understand what he meant, but I trust his judgment," Aragorn said quietly. "I did as he suggested, and I noticed other things, though I am not sure what their significance is."

For awhile, he fell silent, and Legolas was more than willing to let his friend sift through his thoughts. As he waited, his gaze kept returning to where Gúthwyn lay. He would have given much to know what went on behind those tortured eyes, hardened and cruel in the sunlight, wary and frightened in the evening. Once again, he reminded himself to speak with her, though he could not foresee what the result would be. He hoped that her dislike of him had been based on a misunderstanding; it escaped him utterly what he might have done to offend her.

"Then there is her Warg bite."

Legolas turned back to Aragorn. "Did she tell you how she got it?"

"No," the Ranger replied. "In fact, she went out of her way to change the subject when I pressed her for information. What surprises me is that she was even bitten by a Warg in the first place. Unless Saruman has been breeding them, which is certainly a possibility, I cannot picture them in Rohan. And if they came to the Mark, it would be the warriors fighting them, not the women, shieldmaidens though they might be."

Legolas did not know what a shieldmaiden was, but that was not the point. "Perhaps there was a raid on the village where she lived," he suggested.

"Boromir tells me she is from Edoras," Aragorn said. "There is no chance Wargs could have traveled all the way to that city without being detected or stopped. Yet maybe she was in another area of Rohan, visiting relatives. Who am I to say? Maybe I am jumping to conclusions, because Elrond was suspicious of her. Maybe she really does speak the truth, and thinks me unreasonable for doubting her. And maybe I am being unreasonable."

"There does not seem to be an easy answer to this," Legolas said, "though in these times, you are not being unreasonable. If you wish, I will try and question her, but do not pin any hopes on my success."

"No," Aragorn replied. "I do not want her to suspect anything. In time, all will be revealed, if there is anything to reveal. Yet in the meanwhile, I will continue to watch her as closely as I do Frodo."

"As you wish," Legolas answered quietly.

His eyes turned to Gúthwyn, and as he watched her she stiffened, as though she knew he was doing so.


	65. Blurred Shapes

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Three:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. As you are aware of, I am using a blend of both movie and book canon. This is especially the case in this chapter, where after Haldir has blindfolded them, they do not spend the night outside of Caras Galadhon. In the movie, they arrived at the city as the sun was setting, and so I have reverted back to movie canon after the blindfolds. Sorry for any confusion. Furthermore, regarding the ladder they climb up—I can't tell whether by 'ladder' Tolkien meant 'stairs,' because both are used interchangeably, so I have decided to interpret it as a part ladder, part stairs kind of thing. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Three**

When Gúthwyn awoke, the first thing she was aware of was that she was hardly aware of anything. She was not contradicting herself: Her vision was blurred, and she could only hear dull noises on the fringes of her ears. The Warg bite was pounding.

"Gúthwyn?" The sound of her name being called came to her as though from a far distance. She groaned softly, rolling on her side. _I want to go back to sleep,_ she thought to herself slowly, each word difficult to form in her mind.

"Gúthwyn?" There the voice was again, disrupting her rest. She raised her arm to swat at it, but could barely move. Yet she felt someone's presence near her, and blearily she attempted to open her eyes some more.

There was a dark, hazy shape above her. "Gúthwyn," it said again, and reached down to her shoulders. She cringed, instinctively shrinking away from it.

"Gúthwyn, it is I, Boromir."

She blinked, and then realized that it was indeed the Gondorian. "What is it?" she asked. It felt as though she were speaking around a mouthful of fabric. Had her scarf slipped?

"We are getting ready to leave."

Leave? She could not even imagine getting off of her pallet, which was warm… Actually, it was hot. Her hand felt for her blanket so she could shove it off, but it was not on her. The thing had fallen to the side. "Why is it so hot in here?" she murmured, her speech slurred.

Boromir's figure was still, and then his hand went to her forehead. Before she knew what was happening, he stood. She saw his blurry feet moving around her, and then they disappeared. Relieved that he was not pressing her to stand, she yawned and closed her eyes once more. Rest was what she needed…

Suddenly two hands were clamped down on her shoulders. "Gúthwyn," someone said. It was not Boromir. She gradually opened her eyes again to see what looked like Aragorn—why was her vision so poor this morning?—kneeling beside her.

"Time to go?" she asked tiredly.

Aragorn spoke, but it was not to her. She could not make sense of the words. When he at last acknowledged her, he said merely: "Get up."

Moaning, she struggled to do as he bid. Getting to her knees took her several seconds to complete. From there, she tried to push herself up to her feet, but no sooner had she made some progress than her legs wavered, and she fell down. _What is wrong with me?_ she wondered dazedly, and attempted to stand a second time. When her legs gave out again, someone grabbed her under her arms and hauled her up.

"Is it the infection?" Boromir asked. She managed to remain standing as he let go of her, but it was taking a great amount of energy. At the mention of the word 'infection,' she felt a twinge of fear enter her stomach.

"Now it is more important that Haldir leads us to Caras Galadhon swiftly," Aragorn replied, and numbly she turned her eyes on him. "Until we arrive in the city, she will have to make do with it."

"Has she had anything to eat or drink?"

Gúthwyn paled. "Fine," she managed to say. The children's faces were before her; if she succumbed now, to a small infection, she would never forgive herself. Her dreams were not going to be ruined in Lothlórien. "Fine," she repeated.

The two Men exchanged looks, but at that moment, Haldir came up to them. He took a quick glance at her. "We will move hastily today," he said. "Make sure she keeps up."

"I am fine," she told him, every word like a ton of bricks she had to haul. She did not even have the energy to be afraid of him.

Haldir turned to Aragorn. "Follow me," he ordered.

* * *

The morning passed in a strange haze to Gúthwyn. Slowly but surely she could feel the infection taking its toll. Even Boromir, who was walking right in front of her, was a blurry figure. She did not fall once; a fiery concentration had come over her, a battle to put one foot in front of the other, one that she was not about to lose. Hammel and Haiweth's images secured themselves in her thoughts, reminders of what would happen if she failed. And so she went on, even as the speed of the Company under Haldir's lead hastened, even as her body grew hotter and more difficult to move.

It was almost noon when they stopped. Rubbing her eyes, Gúthwyn looked around, and saw that there was a swiftly running river before them. When she strained her ears, she could hear rushing water, though it was softer than it should have been.

Suddenly a flash of grey passed through her eyes. She blinked; Haldir had cast a rope across the river to another Elf that had appeared on the opposite shore. The Elves tied each end around a tree, and when they were done Haldir leaped onto the rope.

"Celebrant is already a strong stream here, as you see," he said, turning to them. Gúthwyn moved closer to hear him better. "We do not set foot in it so far north, unless we must. But in these days of watchfulness we do not make bridges. This is how we cross!"

Then, to Gúthwyn's astonishment, so much that she thought her condition had already progressed to her seeing things, Haldir ran across the rope as if it were land. He went to the other side, then came back to them, jumping lightly off.

"I can walk this path," Legolas told him, and inwardly she cringed, "but the others have not this skill. Must they swim?"

Every note of his speech grated on her nerves, until she was concentrating on just breathing. As a result, she did not hear what Haldir said in response, until two more ropes had been slung across the river. One was tied shoulder-height, in relation to the first rope; the other was waist-height.

Using these, the Company began to cross. Gúthwyn sighed, but there was no chance that she would ask anyone for help. It was already embarrassing enough how weak they thought her to be.

_From now on,_ she told herself dizzily, _you are doing everything on your own._

When it was her turn to cross, she managed to pull herself up by using the waist rope; then she planted her feet on the first one, gripping the other two tightly. Below her, the Celebrant roared and frothed, glimmering and shining in the dappled sunlight. Slowly, she started moving. With her disorientation, it was even more important that she pay attention to what she was doing, for one small misstep could cause her to tumble into the River.

At length, she unsteadily jumped off of the rope, landing on the banks of the opposite side next to Boromir. Her timing had not been worse than any of the others', for which she was secretly pleased. As she moved quickly out of the way of Aragorn, who had followed her, she faintly heard Sam grumbling, though she could not make sense of what he said.

"How are you holding up?" Boromir asked her quietly. It took a minute for his words to connect with her ears; then, she merely replied:

"I am fine."

He nodded, though it did not look like he believed her. "We are almost there."

Just then, Haldir spoke to the Company, and she turned to listen to his words, unconsciously backing away from him. "Now, friends," he said, gesturing at the woods around them, "you have entered the Naith of Lórien, or the Gore, as you would say, for it is the land that lies like a spearhead between the arms of Silverlode and Anduin the Great."

For a while he stood there, breathing in the smell of the waters and the trees, and then he continued. "We allow no strangers to spy out the secrets of the Naith. Few indeed are even permitted to set foot there."

Despite herself, Gúthwyn's attention began to wander. The sight of the running water caught her eye, and she stared at it as one hypnotized. She had drunk nothing but water for the past seven years, not even in Rivendell where mead and wine flowed heavily. Yet though it was such a simple thing, she was still entranced by the river. Her body was so hot… She wondered what it would be like to just walk into it, clothes and all, and float on her back for a few hours on end; certainly more relaxing than her current situation.

How long she stood there, not paying heed to what the others were saying, she did not know, but then someone called her name. She blinked, and glanced up. Aragorn was standing before her, holding a piece of dark cloth. "Wrap this around your eyes," he said.

"I have…" The energy it took to complete the sentence escaped her, and she settled for gesturing towards her pack, indicating the scarf she normally used.

"No," Aragorn replied, "Haldir does not wish us to see anything. Were you not listening?"

She did not answer, but he knew what the silence meant. "Follow Boromir," he told her. "We are all going blindfolded through the Naith, until we reach Caras Galadhon. It is law here, so do not dispute it."

When his words had found their way into her mind, her eyes widened, and she backed away from him. "No," she said, her breathing rapid. She glanced around wildly, half-expecting to see Haldor stepping out of the shadows.

"You do not have a choice," Aragorn replied, and held out the cloth once more.

She did not take it. "Not with _them!_" Legolas, Haldir, and another Elf were still there. She would not place herself, blindfolded, at their mercy. Her hands trembled at the idea, and suddenly she felt faint.

"If it pleases you to know," Aragorn told her, his eyes narrowed, "Legolas is going blindfolded as well. Haldir will lead us safely to Caras Galadhon. We are wasting time; put the cloth on."

There was nothing she could do otherwise. Nausea swelled within her as she reached out and took the fabric. She looked at it, trying to remain calm as she shakily lifted it to her eyes. And then, before she could lose her nerve, she hastily wrapped it around her, sending a prayer up to the Valar that no Elf would harm her while she was so vulnerable.

Yet when the blindfold was covering her eyes, and the darkness surrounded her, she panicked. A whimper escaped her, and her hands reached up to tear the fabric off, Haldor's laughter echoing maliciously in her ears.

Her hands did not touch the cloth; someone grabbed them tightly. "Keep it on," Aragorn hissed, and slowly pushed her arms down until they were by her side. She was half delirious with a combination of terror and the infection, and was unable to resist him.

The Ranger led her a short distance to where she knew the rest of the Company was. For a wild moment, she thought that he had lied to her, and that she was the only one blindfolded. When his hands left her, she was about to yank the fabric off when she heard Haldir say, "Now it is your turn, Aragorn."

With that, she relaxed very slightly, until a wave of pain came from her Warg bite.

* * *

She did not realize that the Company had stopped until she walked right into Boromir—or what she assumed was Boromir.

"Sorry," she muttered feverishly, wiping the sweat from her forehead and backing away. She did not move too far, for fear of Legolas being behind her.

The blindfold was still wrapped firmly around her eyes. It had been a thousand years since they crossed the Celebrant, each of them taking a million more to complete. Her body was hunched over in terror, of both the darkness surrounding her and the Elves leading the Company through Lothlórien. Only thoughts of Borogor and the children had kept her sane during the march; as it was, she could already feel her mind slipping, losing its battle against the infection.

Ahead of her, she heard Haldir's voice, but though she strained her ears she could not hear it. So she remained where she was, quivering, wondering if the Elves were going to attack her—then two hands were placed around her head.

She cried out softly and tried to twist away, but before she could do anything her blindfold had been removed. Gasping, she nearly stumbled into Boromir again. When she had straightened herself with difficulty, she straightened and looked around. What she saw did not ease her heart at all.

There were no shapes that identified themselves to her; everything was merely a green and gold blur. She turned to Boromir, and saw that she could barely make out his features. Why was breathing so difficult?

The Gondorian's shape drew closer to her. "Aragorn!" he called, his voice thick and sonorous.

A second shadow joined him. "She is getting worse," Boromir said.

"I am fine," she whispered, but though her lips moved, no sound came out. When a hand reached out and took her chin, followed by a second that waved in front of her eyes, she could not muster enough strength to pull away.

"We will be there within an hour," Aragorn muttered, and she moaned softly. She did not want to go to this city… she could not, _Haldor_ was there…

No, not there, but Elves were.

Then the earth was spinning, and she swayed dizzily. What was going on?

Two hands were placed on her shoulders, steadying her. "When we climb this hill," someone said to her, and she could not tell whether it was Boromir or Aragorn, "you will see Caras Galadhon. From there, it will not be long until we are presented to the Lady."

When the Man let go of her, she struggled to remain on her feet, and succeeded. The Fellowship began moving again, and she stumbled along with them. Once more, the mantra _one foot in front of the other_ filled her mind, and in this manner she kept up with the others, though she was growing dizzier by the minute. _Just a little farther,_ she told herself wearily. _He said so._

When they next stopped, her legs hurt so much that she nearly collapsed to the ground. They must have been at the top of the hill, for someone—Haldir?—said then:

"Caras Galadhon, the heart of Elvendom on earth. Realm of the Lord Celeborn and of Galadriel, Lady of Light."

He spoke reverently, but when Gúthwyn glanced up, all that she saw was a shimmering green haze. _Borogor, help me,_ she thought pleadingly. _I am scared; I do not know what to do!_

There was no response, but she felt a sudden warmth within her as she remembered his arms wrapped around her. And so when the Company started walking once more, she did not mind so much, as long as her mind did not stray from Borogor's comforting embrace.

The evening air was soon upon them, but not the darkness. In the trees were shining lights, twinkling merrily around her, accompanied by an uplifting of beautiful voices. She had never heard the likes of them; they sang without pause, each note melodious and pleasing to the ear, but their words were drenched in sorrow. She did not understand what they were saying, for it was in a strange language—not even the Elvish which Aragorn, Legolas, and Haldir spoke, but maybe something related to it—yet she, too, felt their sadness as if it were her own.

They must have entered the city; before long, Haldir halted them at the base of an enormous tree. For a moment, Gúthwyn just stared at it: The tree was silver. She blinked, then craned her neck up to see where it ended. The first branches were high above her; she could not even see the highest ones. A wave of dizziness came over her, and she swayed.

"Here dwell Celeborn and Galadriel." The voice penetrated through the fog surrounding her, and she looked back down to see Haldir speaking to the Company. She cringed at the sight of the three Elves behind him. "It is their wish that you should ascend and speak with them."

He moved slightly out of the way, and the Fellowship now gazed upon a broad white ladder that followed the tree trunk all the way up. A sinking feeling came over her as one of the Elves stood, and gave a ringing blast on the horn that he carried. It was answered from above, though very faintly.

"I will go first," Haldir told them, one of his hands and feet already on the ladder. "Let Frodo come next and with him Legolas. Have Gúthwyn go behind Boromir and in front of Aragorn, in case she is overwhelmed by her illness."

The Hobbits glanced at her curiously, and she blushed. Yet she was unable to say anything: Her throat had constricted, and she could barely breathe without difficulty.

"The others may follow as they wish," Haldir continued. "It is a long climb for those that are not accustomed to such stairs, but you may rest upon the way."

Despite his words, they did not rest. To her relief, the ladder only went until the first set of branches, after which a circular flight of stairs wrapped itself around the tree, but it was enough. Her breathing was so ragged and uneven that Boromir looked back at her frequently, as if expecting her to choke at any moment. When the ladder ended just below a small platform, she could not climb on top of it.

"Here," Boromir said, and before she could protest he took her hands and lifted her up. She landed on the platform and nearly lost her footing until he steadied her. Her eyes closed.

Boromir shook her shoulders gently. "We are almost there," he told her, and she stepped away from him. It was not his touch that bothered her; it was the pity in his eyes. She did not want any of it. A rush of humiliation washed over her.

He must have sensed that he had done something, for then he turned around to face the stairs. Already the Hobbits were climbing them. She could see Legolas' straight back disappearing around a curve, and shuddered. There was nothing to do but follow the rest of the Company. Aragorn was behind her, and she did not want him to think her weaker than she already seemed.

The upward climb was nothing short of hell. Her body was burning; she did not know whether it was from the exertion, or infection, or both. It was near impossible for her to see where they were going. The lights kept getting in her eyes and causing them to water, accompanied by a nauseous feeling that had her clutching at her stomach. _One foot in front of the other. One foot in front of the other._

At length, those ahead of her started vanishing. She glanced up tiredly and saw that there was an opening above her, revealing an enormous oval-shaped chamber. When she passed through it, so bowed over that she was almost on her knees, her eyes blinked rapidly in the bright glow that seemed to fill the entire chamber. As soon as this ordeal was over, she was going to lie down on the nearest soft surface and fall fast asleep.

Then all was silent, and Gúthwyn squinted. There were two blurry white shapes making their way down a short flight of stairs towards the Fellowship, who had gathered in the middle of the_ flet_ when they came off of the stairs, but at times they appeared to be one. All of the Elves in the area bowed deeply, and she realized that this must be the Lord and Lady of Lothlórien.

She was barely able to see at this point; yet when Celeborn and Galadriel came before them and were still, she was immediately awed by the Lady's beauty. It was similar to that of Arwen's, of which she had observed jealously, but while Arwen's hair was dark as night, Galadriel's was golden as a brilliant morning. The Elf before her was clad in a dazzling white robe, and carried herself in the manner of a wise and proud queen.

Next to Galadriel was Celeborn, who looked no less impressive than his wife. With silver hair and stern eyes, gazing imperiously upon them, he was exactly what his title proclaimed him to be. As she watched him, he opened his mouth, and when he spoke, his voice was deep and commanding.

"The Enemy knows you have entered here," he said, his eyes falling upon all of them in turn. "What hope you had in secrecy is now gone."

She did not care about secrecy; she only wanted to sleep. _Stay awake!_ she told herself furiously. _Not now! Have patience!_

Celeborn was still addressing them. "Tell me: Where is Gandalf? For I much desire to speak with him. I can no longer see him from afar."

There was a somber pause, in which members of the Fellowship glanced uneasily at each other, but Galadriel it was who answered.

"Gandalf the Grey did not pass the borders of this land," she whispered, and her voice was fair and wise. "He has fallen into shadow."

If Gúthwyn was struggling to remain awake, Legolas aided her. The sound of him speaking sent shivers up and down her spine, and she tensed with nervousness. "He was taken by both shadow and flame," the Elf spoke, each word grief-filled. "A Balrog of Morgoth." A collective grimace went through the others at the mention of the Dark Lord before Sauron, even more powerful than the one who know reigned from Mordor. "For we went needlessly into the net of Moria."

Galadriel rebuked him, though not unkindly. "Needless were none of the deeds of Gandalf in life. We do not yet know his full purpose."

Gúthwyn's head was beginning to pound once more. She tried to ignore it, but the pain was becoming too great. A wince crossed her face, along with a sharp intake of breath. Boromir glanced over at her.

"And in all lands," Galadriel continued, her attention now drawn to the Gondorian, "love is now mingled with grief."

Her words struck a chord with Gúthwyn, for they were true. In Rohan, she had loved her family dearly, only to be cruelly torn away from them. Éomer and Éowyn were dead, and Théoden no longer wanted her as a niece. In Isengard, the Tintalim clan had grown to be a surrogate family, but she had been taken from their care as well. Chalibeth had passed from the circles of the world, never to be seen again. Soon she had found happiness once more, in both Hammel and Haiweth, but now they were miles upon miles away from her. Borogor—she had not even realized her love for him until it was too late, with no chance of remedying her folly.

Even in her fevered state, tears came to her eyes. And so when the Lady Galadriel looked at her, and sought to determine the Rohirric woman's purpose, she saw thoughts of only two smiling children and a dark-haired man, sitting together in a small tent. Thus, love thwarted the Lady's piercing gaze, and when Aragorn of the Dúnedain asked her later whether Gúthwyn was innocent, she could not say otherwise. The daughter of Éomund had passed a test, though she did not know it at the time.

All Gúthwyn knew was that her mind suddenly felt exhausted beyond belief, as if someone had ransacked it, and that she was dangerously close to fainting again. Her Warg bite was prickling and shooting bursts of pain throughout her entire body, so that she could not concentrate on what was being said around her. Instead she found herself swaying back and forth, unable to keep a steady footing.

She was about to close her eyes, regardless of the Elves surrounding the Company, regardless of the fact that Legolas was not two yards away, when someone took her by the arm and brought her before the Lord and Lady. It was Aragorn; the rest of the Fellowship was being led away by Haldir, some of them staring at her in curiosity.

"My Lady," Aragorn said, bowing as he spoke. "This is Gúthwyn of Rohan." It was a mere formality, for Galadriel clearly knew all of their names.

Gúthwyn thought she was supposed to bow at this point, but she was not going to submit to another Elf; even if she wanted to, she would not be able to muster the energy.

"A wound on her face became infected shortly after we left the Mines." Now Aragorn's voice was getting fuzzier, and harder to hear. "I did not have the medicine to heal it, and I fear she will perish if nothing is done. I beg of you your help, if you will give it."

Galadriel looked at her, and there was a reassuring smile on her face. "In the Golden Wood, all who seek my aid will find it, if they are not a servant of the Enemy."

Gúthwyn barely heard the last part, but when she did, she sincerely prayed that the Lady of Light had not seen into her mind and discovered the real reason why she was with the Company.

"To you, Gúthwyn, I will put forth the power I have to heal you, and I do not think my efforts will be in vain. You are young, I deem, yet physically your strength surpasses that of many. A frail chamber your mind rests in, but it remains standing because of a drive to protect those you love, which is fierce as the pride of those you were raised amongst. Your life will not end here."

With those comforting words, Gúthwyn felt herself speeding away from her body. A warm contentment entered her, and she knew no more.


	66. A Ruined Duel

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Four:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. As you are aware of, I am using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Four**

When Gúthwyn awoke, her eyes first saw an unfamiliar white ceiling. Oddly enough, it was billowing in the breeze. She blinked, and sat up.

_Where am I?_ she wondered in bewilderment, gazing around her. Currently, she was lying on a small but clean bed, lined with white sheets that smelled like flowers. As she looked some more, she realized that she was inside a tent, one that seemed to have been set aside just for her. Her pack and weapons were laid on the ground, untouched and exactly as she had left them. When she glanced down at herself, she was relieved to see that she was wearing the same clothes she had always worn; nothing had been removed, with the exception of her scarves and cloak. They were on a small table on the opposite end of the tent.

_The Warg bite!_ she finally remembered, and raised her hand up to touch her cheek. Then her eyes widened: The skin was almost perfectly smooth.

Small, shuddering breaths escaped her as she ran her fingers over what had recently been an infected, mangled cheek. Now, she could only feel small lines crisscrossing it, barely noticeable. Her pulse quickened. The Lady Galadriel had healed it, as she said she would.

A broad smile suddenly came to her face, surprising even her with its spontaneity. She leapt out of the bed and stretched. The thought came to her mind that she would go and find the rest of the Fellowship—she longed to show _someone_ that her face was no longer hideous and ruined by the Warg bite. She would not even wear her cloak; with the pleasant air around her, the very idea of putting it on seemed cumbersome.

She was about to leave the tent when the flap was pulled back. In entered the Lady Galadriel.

Gúthwyn froze. "M-My Lady," she finally stammered, and lowered her eyes to the ground. She would not bow if it was not required for her.

Galadriel laughed, and even as Gúthwyn stiffened she knew it was not to make fun of her. "Welcome to Lothlórien, Gúthwyn of Rohan. Please, sit."

Unable to think of anything else to do, the daughter of Éomund did as the Lady told her, lowering herself gingerly onto the bed. A twinge of nervousness came over her as Galadriel stepped closer.

"You have been sleeping for nearly three days," the Elf told her. "Some of the Company have already been inquiring about you, especially Merry, Pippin, and Boromir."

A small smile came to Gúthwyn's face, then disappeared when she looked back at Galadriel. She knew that such an obvious gesture was rude, but could not help it. Hoping to cover up her mistake, she said, "Thank you, my Lady, for healing this." She touched her cheek.

Galadriel seemed pleased. "Would you like to see it?" she asked.

Gúthwyn nodded, then took the mirror that was handed to her. Slowly, she inhaled and exhaled before looking at herself for the first time in over three years.

Immediately, her mouth fell open. "This is… incredible," she breathed. The left side of her face was now nearly the same as the right side; it was slightly paler, with thin white lines running over it, but they were hard to see. Whereas before, you would not even have known that there was flesh beneath the mangled, scarred, and pitted wound. "H-How—?"

"There is very little that I cannot heal," Galadriel replied kindly. "Time, of course, and death I cannot reverse, but you will find that most hurt and grief can be remedied in Lothlórien."

Gúthwyn touched her cheek again. It was proof that the Lady's words were true. "T-Thank you so much," she said softly. She could hardly believe that what the mirror showed her was not merely wishful thinking.

Galadriel smiled. "The others you will find nearby, in a tent similar to yours. You are free to walk about the Golden Wood as you wish, as long as you do not leave. If you have need of anything, do not hesitate to ask."

The daughter of Éomund opened her mouth to give her thanks once more, but the Lady waved her words away with a pale hand. "Until we see each other again, farewell," she said, and then was gone, like the fleeting remains of a pleasant dream.

Still holding the mirror, Gúthwyn blinked in surprise, then looked at her cheek once more. Perhaps the female Elves were not at all like their male counterparts. _How many would heal such a wound without even knowing their patient?_ Not many, that was for sure. She heaved a long, relieved sigh before standing back up. It was time to find the Fellowship.

Walking out of the tent, she discovered that it was almost noon. The sweet smell of flowers, trees, _life_ was all around her; nor could she see any Elves. For a moment she indulged herself such as she rarely had. Flinging her arms open, she tilted her head back and spun in a slow circle, breathing deeply and rejoicing in the sudden hope welling up within her.

And then she exhaled, coming back to herself. _You have not freed Hammel and Haiweth yet,_ a stern voice told her. _Nor should you let your guard down in a place such as this._

Sighing slightly, she lowered her arms reluctantly and resumed a brisk pace. When she had the Ring, she decided, then it would be time to celebrate.

The Fellowship she found not too far away from her own tent. With the exception of Legolas—her heart skipped for joy—they were all gathered outside, sitting in a circle and eating. Despite the firm warnings she had given herself not a moment ago, a wide grin was on her face as she approached them.

Boromir was the first to see her. He paused, a piece of bread halfway to his mouth; his lips parted in surprise. "Gúthwyn?" he asked, looking as though he was not sure if he was seeing a mirage. "Is that—?"

The others looked around at her. Like Boromir, most of them were astounded to see her without her cloak and scarves. Merry and Pippin gave shouts of glee and sprang up to their feet.

"My lady, you look wonderful," Merry declared, bowing deeply.

"Never better," Pippin added.

Quiet laughter escaped her, and soon the Hobbits had joined in. Before long all three of them were beside themselves—Merry and Pippin with a joy for life, and Gúthwyn with a sudden giddiness that only came with a burden being lifted from one's shoulders.

When they had calmed themselves somewhat, Gúthwyn glanced up to see Boromir approaching her. "I am glad to see you happy," he said, smiling as he clapped a hand on her shoulder. She blushed, but could not stop grinning.

"I feel wonderful," she whispered.

"Here in Lothlórien, both mind and body are refreshed," someone said, and she looked over Boromir's shoulder to see Aragorn. The Ranger moved closer to see what remained of her wound. "Galadriel's powers are great, indeed," he marveled. "Did you see her?"

Gúthwyn nodded, but at that moment Gimli called from the circle, "All of you, sit back down! Where are your manners? Give her some breakfast!"

"Sam made sausages!" Merry exclaimed as he led her to a seat. "The Lady didn't want him to do anything during our stay, but he insisted on it."

She smiled at Sam, who quickly flushed and looked away.

A plate was soon handed to her, but she only allowed Sam to give her a small portion. Despite the happy atmosphere around her, she still felt a twinge of nervousness as she looked at the meat. Up until now, she had only had about one meal a day, and often felt queasy for hours afterward. Bread was her preference, but it would have been rude to refuse Sam's cooking.

She took a deep breath and put a piece in her mouth as Gimli began telling her all that he had seen so far. To her immense relief, she did not throw it up; carefully, she swallowed, and willed herself to concentrate on what the Dwarf was saying.

"…yet no one is fairer than the Lady of Light herself! More precious than all the jewels beneath the ground is she, and I would gladly give them all up to see her one more time." He sighed reverently, and Gúthwyn glanced at him in surprise.

"I thought the Elves and Dwarves did not get along well," she said.

"They do not, as a rule," Gimli admitted, "but my family was not involved in the feuds. Still, I see the error of my ways. It grieves me to realize that I have missed a good friendship with Legolas until now."

Gúthwyn nearly choked on her sausage. "You are friends, then?" she asked when she recovered.

"Aye," Gimli said, his beard quivering as he nodded.

She fell into silence, listening rather than contributing to the others' conversations. Frodo, she saw, was also quiet. Oftentimes his hand went to the chain around his neck, fingering it delicately before returning to his breakfast. She was careful not to look at him for too long.

One by one, the Company finished their breakfasts and began leaving to wander around Lothlórien. Gúthwyn remained where she was, not having a mind to walk through an Elven land. Aragorn stayed with her as well, but they did not speak: He was lost in thought, a pipe in his mouth and obscuring his face with smoke.

_What shall I do?_ she wondered. Galadriel had given her leave to go where she wished in the Golden Wood, but who knew what kind of Elves she might meet? She was not ready to take that risk.

She was about to go back to her tent, possibly to read some of Beregil's poems, when an idea struck her.

"Lord Aragorn," she called, getting to her feet. He glanced up at her and set aside the pipe. "I am going to get my sword and find somewhere to practice. Would you be interested in joining? It has been a long time since I have had someone to spar with, and you are certainly a worthy opponent."

For a moment he did not say anything, though he looked as if he were silently evaluating her. At length, he nodded, and stood up. "There is a clearing down that path," he said, gesturing. "The warriors normally use it, but not at this hour."

She thanked him, a smile firmly on her face, and left to retrieve her sword. The steps to her tent flew by in no time. Quickly, she grabbed the weapon and made her way to where Aragorn had indicated. He was waiting for her, a pair of gauntlets now on, his sword already unsheathed; as she approached him, he gave a few experimental swings.

Gúthwyn withdrew her own blade, taking a few seconds to revel in the steel shining in the morning sun. Tiny shoots of adrenaline were beginning to run through her, and as she did a few basic blocks and counters to the air she thought that she had not been so excited for months.

"Shall we start?" Aragorn asked after about a minute, and she nodded, moving over to where he stood. The two of them gave small bows to each other, observing a polite tradition, and then readied their swords. Since the blades had not been dulled, they would have to exercise caution, but she did not fear for her own safety.

For a moment, they merely circled each other. Gúthwyn's muscles were taut with anticipation. She licked her lips as the seconds passed, then decided to get things started. With a quick movement, she darted to Aragorn's left. He thought she was going to strike him, and before she had time to blink, he countered with one of his own. It was swift and powerful; she almost missed the block. Her eyes widened. _He is very, very good._

As a matter of fact, she thought as their blades clashed together, he fought like Borogor—direct attacks, as opposed to underhanded tricks and jabs. Gúthwyn used a mixture of both, but it was rare that she defeated Borogor in a sparring match. And she knew now that it would be just as difficult to best this Ranger, who looked more than confident and extraordinarily skilled with his weapon.

The sparring match lengthened. Nearly ten minutes had gone by; sweat was pouring down his forehead as well as hers. Yet she found herself drawing strength from the scent, from the sound of his blade clashing against hers, from the sight of his eyes narrowed in concentration. While Aragorn's movements grew neither sloppy nor bolder, hers became more accurate, more swift and powerful than before.

Another ten minutes passed. He was getting tired, she knew. Every twist of his blade she blocked effortlessly. Every block he sent her, she countered with a faster attack. His breathing was growing rapid, and his motions sluggish. The changes were so small that an onlooker would not have noticed, but Gúthwyn could detect them easily, and thrived off of his discomfort.

She began pushing him harder, fighting on pure adrenaline and excitement. He was losing ground, but she did not let up on him once. A few more minutes, and she would have him. They both knew this; she read it in his eyes as she swung her sword at his shoulders. He blocked it, and suddenly she noticed that when he did so, he overextended his arm and reached too far out, leaving his chest open.

Sensing weakness, she moved forward, keeping him busy with several more strikes that he had more and more difficulty blocking. _Almost there!_ she thought triumphantly, and raised her sword.

At that moment, there was a flash of gold from behind the trees. Before she could even panic, Legolas stepped out into the clearing. Time seemed to slow as his cold blue eyes settled on hers. The familiar terror wove its way into her again, tightening its grip on her heart.

And then her sword was flying out of her hands, landing heavily on the ground. Aragorn had used her distraction to lunge forward and deliver a powerful blow, one that she herself had often used to disarm opponents. For a moment she stared at it, dumbfounded, unable to believe that she had just lost when victory was so tantalizingly close. Then she turned back to Aragorn.

"Good job," he said, panting slightly. His grey eyes were wide.

She could not speak, and only nodded as she looked at Legolas. A puzzled expression was on his face, as if he had no idea that he had just ruined her concentration, practice, entire day. To her horror, she felt tears pricking at her eyes. Without the cloak and scarves, she had no way of concealing her emotions.

Angrily and miserably, she bent down and picked up her sword, sheathing it hastily. She was silent as she moved towards Legolas: He was standing on the only path out of the clearing.

"I am sorry—" he started to say, but she shook her head.

"You just had to come here," she whispered in disbelief, before storming past him. She broke into a run fifteen feet down the path, and did not look back.

* * *

Legolas watched her go in bafflement, then turned to Aragorn. "I am sorry," he said. "I did not mean to—"

His friend held up a hand. "Do not apologize," he replied wearily, and then grinned. "You may just have saved my dignity."

"Come again?" Legolas asked, frowning.

Aragorn's expression sobered, and as he sheathed his sword Legolas suddenly saw that the Dúnadan was tired—no, not just tired, exhausted.

"That," Aragorn said, inhaling and exhaling deeply, "was one match I found myself in danger of losing."

Legolas blinked. The only time he had seen Gúthwyn fight was just now, and she had become distracted by his mere presence. It was not the sign of a warrior.

Aragorn noticed his surprise. "Before you came, she was pushing me back like few have ever done before. We had been fighting for almost half an hour, on that single duel."

"Half an hour?" Legolas echoed, turning to see Gúthwyn's back disappearing from sight.

His friend nodded. "She would have had me in a few minutes. Her skill… I have never seen anything like it."

Legolas leaned against a tree, relaxing slightly in the arms of nature. "How did she learn to fight so well, then?"

"I do not know," Aragorn replied, frowning slightly. "But there is something within her that…" he trailed off, looking into the distance. "It is difficult to explain," he said at last. "Yet as we fought, rather than grow tired, it was as if she took strength from the very duel itself. You could read it in her eyes: She loves fighting. And she knew that she was going to win."

"Though when I came, she stopped," Legolas said quietly.

Aragorn looked at him. "I wonder at that—if it had been anyone else, I doubt she would have hesitated."

Legolas did not say anything, but as he watched the trees billowing in a soft breeze, he could not help but remember her last words to him.


	67. Confrontation

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Five:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. As you are aware of, I am using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Five**

The gleaming afternoon brought glorious life to Lothlórien. Elves roamed the woods, laughing gaily despite the times, and rejoiced in the simplicity of nature's gifts. The Silverlode rushed along its course, sparkling and shimmering brilliantly as it went. Trees whispered to each other, glad for this fine day, lifting their branches up to receive the sun's rays. All was peaceful.

In the middle of this, however, Gúthwyn sat in her tent, wrapped tightly in her cloak and huddled against the wall. Her body was trembling slightly, and in her hands she clutched a small black book. It was opened to "The Warrior."

_His sword glints in the sunlight._ How many hours had they spent together, sparring until the sky was beginning to turn grey? Swords glinting in the sunlight… She had seen him fight with the other men. The only one who could truly beat him without trying was Haldor.

_Twirling, flashing, dancing._ She had never learned to dance—Borogor probably had not, either. But when he held her, her heart had danced, though she did not realize it until too late. Her heart had danced and leaped with the wind… now it was being restrained by cruel bonds; ones that were invisible, but all the more unbearable for it.

_A whisper in the wind, a streak of rushing metal._ His voice had whispered so softly, so gently to her, telling her that she was safe with him. How had she been so _deaf_, so _blind_, that even when his face was inches from hers and their eyes met, she had not understood what all of the gestures meant? Rushing metal… even when she attacked him with a sword, even when she fought furiously with him and used him as a release for her anger, the feelings had been there.

_Yet it is not the beauty he seeks to destroy. The warrior._ There was no beauty in Mordor, but there was Borogor. A warrior, simple enough. He had not known being anything else for his entire life; she wished he had met Éomer! The two of them would have gotten along extremely well… if only she could have introduced them. But Éomer's body was in Rohan, while Borogor's lay somewhere in Ithilien.

_He sees the good in all things; living, dying, awake, asleep._ Beregil's words could not have been truer. Borogor had seen her in her most vulnerable, mortifying, and shameful moments, but he had never turned her away. In fact, he had worked to win her trust, refusing to back away even when she cringed from him in terror; she could not have been more grateful for his persistency.

_Kind and generous, unassuming and humble._ She found herself wiping her eyes on the back of her sleeve. How was it that someone so noble had fallen in love with a petty whore like her? She did not deserve any of his attention, but he had given it to her anyway, not once mocking her for that which Haldor had done. The countless hours he had spent with her… all of the lessons he had given her…

_Willing to put himself in danger for those he loves; yet it is not in vain._ But it had been in vain. The poet had died years after he had written these words, because Haldor had made it impossible for Borogor to protect his brother. And how many times had Borogor risked the Elf's wrath for her sake, hoping to ease her discomfort, trying over and over again even when it was futile?

_My brother._

"Gúthwyn!" The sound of Merry's voice drifted in from outside her tent, shaking her out of her tormented thoughts. "We're coming in!"

She barely had time to hide her book and blink the tears from her eyes before Merry and Pippin stepped inside.

Pippin did not waste any time before speaking. "You've been in here ever since the Lady healed you," he complained.

It was almost true. After Legolas had cost her the match against Aragorn, all her initial happiness had disappeared. Like Rivendell, she had stayed in the lodgings provided for her, refusing to go out during the daytime except for select meals. When these occurred, she made sure that Legolas was nowhere in the vicinity before sitting down with the Fellowship; even then, she only stayed for a brief time.

During the night was when she left her tent and practiced relentlessly with her sword. Fury at Legolas drove her longer and harder than normal, and as a result, when she returned to her tent in the early morning she often slept until late afternoon. Let the Company think that she was avoiding them. At this point, she no longer cared for their opinions, unless perhaps Boromir, Merry, or Pippin spoke with her. Almost a month had passed in this manner, and to her relief, they were leaving the Golden Wood tomorrow.

"You're always sleeping or reading," Merry added, jolting her from her thoughts. "Haven't you been outside at all?"

Gúthwyn shrugged. "I am fine," she replied, swinging her legs over the bed and setting them on the ground. "Do not worry for me."

Merry shook his head. "Today, you're not staying here," he announced, and with that the two Halflings went swiftly forward and took her wrists. "We're going to show you the finer aspects of Lothlórien, tour courtesy of yours truly. And Pip."

She could not help but smile as she allowed them to pull her to her feet. "Alright," she conceded. "Fine. Where are you taking me?"

"Wherever my lady wishes," Merry said, playing the part of squire extraordinarily well.

"Gúthwyn," she corrected him as they went outside. For a moment, she blinked in the sunlight, and her eyes watered painfully.

The Hobbits let go of her, and kept up a constant stream of conversation as they walked. For about half an hour she listened rather than spoke, but then they inquired about Rohan, and she regaled them with stories of life in Edoras. They were amazed to hear that all of the people learned to ride a horse almost as soon as they could walk.

"In the Shire, only the Bullroarer has ever been tall enough to ride a horse," Pippin informed her. "He was four foot five."

"The Bullroarer?" she echoed, looking at him in confusion.

"Bandobras Took," Merry explained. "Distantly related to both Pippin here and myself."

Gúthwyn was impressed. It seemed that all of the Halflings were related to each other in one way or another, no matter how far apart they were.

For the next hour, Merry and Pippin took her around Lothlórien, pointing out the _mallorn_ trees that grew nowhere else in Middle-earth, and also the _niphredil _and _elanor_ flowers. She had never seen their like before—the pale white, the bright gold; only the _simbelmynë_ on the mounds of Théoden's forefathers recalled them.

The Halflings were entertaining her so successfully that she never noticed the Elf coming up from the side.

* * *

"You did well today," Legolas told Rúmil, picking up his bow and quiver. "Even if you are from Lothlórien."

Rúmil smirked. "I myself was surprised to see an Elf of Mirkwood capable of hitting the target," he returned, and the two of them smiled. Such banter was only in friendly jest; as Orophin came over to join them, he was laughing.

"Is the prince getting overconfident again?" he asked his brother.

"Yes," Rúmil replied, "but we will have to wait until the next day to show him the error of his ways."

"I understand," Legolas said, grinning. "In other words, you wish to have more practice before you challenge me again to an archery contest."

"Think what you will, young prince," Orophin told him, and then the two Elves had left, going to report for marchwarden duty. Legolas shook his head in amusement before leaving the large clearing. He, Orophin, and Rúmil had spent the morning at the archery range, getting in some practice before the two Elves of Lórien were called away for duty. As usual, there had been the jokes about Mirkwood Elves versus those from Lothlórien, but all were in good fun. And in the subsequent archery contest, Legolas had taken great pleasure in winning—though only by a few points, as Orophin had hastened to tell him.

As Legolas walked, he hummed an old tune. His heart was glad to be in this place, fair even in the wintertime. Though he had no hard feelings towards the Fellowship, it was a relief to have other Elves to speak with; he had been spending most of his time with them. It was rare that he returned to the tent the Company had been given.

Then he squinted. Some distance ahead, he saw Merry and Pippin strolling through the trees. With them was Gúthwyn, whom he had not seen since the day he accidentally interrupted her sparring session with Aragorn.

He stopped for a minute, debating with himself. _I should speak to her now,_ he decided. Who knew when he would have the opportunity again? Boromir had told him that she had all but barricaded herself in her tent, only emerging for meals; even then, for just a little while. And she certainly would not seek him out on her own.

His mind made up, he began moving towards them. Merry and Pippin were pointing out all of the different flowers that grew in the Golden Wood, and though Gúthwyn looked only mildly interested, she was paying close attention to all they told her. Something was different; then he realized that she was not wearing her scarves. He blinked, and then hastened his footsteps slightly.

Merry and Pippin saw him before she did, and they waved gaily at him. "Legolas!" Pippin cried, a broad smile on his face.

At the sound of his name, Gúthwyn whirled around. He saw her eyes widen in panic as she backed away; he also noticed that the infected Warg bite was gone.

"Greetings," he said to all of them, inclining his head. Then he turned to Gúthwyn, who had now folded her arms over her stomach—a peculiar habit of hers. "Gúthwyn," he began, and she started, then narrowed her eyes. "May I have a word with you?"

"Why?" she asked harshly, taking another step away from him. "What do you want?"

Merry and Pippin were glancing back and forth between them curiously.

"Please," he said, trying to sound as gentle as possible. "It will not take long."

For a moment, she regarded him both angrily and fearfully. Her shoulders were tense.

"Fine," she snapped at last, and immediately looked as though she regretted her decision.

"Thank you," Legolas replied.

"Well, we'll be going," Merry said, and Pippin nodded. "Goodbye!"

The two Halflings disappeared, leaving him alone with Gúthwyn.

"What do you want with me?" she snarled once the Hobbits were out of earshot.

"I wanted to apologize," he said, and she frowned.

"Why?"

He noted that she had asked 'why,' and not 'what for.' "I seem to have done something that has made you dislike me," he told her quietly. "I do not know what it was, but I am sorry."

She turned to stare off into the woods, shivering as she did so. "Is that all?"

Sometimes, he marveled at her rudeness. "No," he answered. "Will you not tell me what I have done, so I might fix it?"

He heard Gúthwyn draw in a sharp breath, and she looked back at him. For a brief instant, their eyes met; she shuddered, but still did not say anything.

"Gúthwyn, I do not understand why you are so unwilling to even speak with me," he said firmly, but kindly. For the life of him, he could not figure out what he had done. He also found it hard to believe that even a human could be so blatantly prejudiced against one race in particular. She was afraid of the other Elves, he knew, but none so much as him, and he was at a loss as to why.

She sighed. "Forget it," she replied, and up close he thought she suddenly looked tired. Her eyes were tinged with both fatigue and fear. "I do not want to talk about it."

"At the least, will you tell me what I can do to fix this?" he pressed. Once again, she did not answer, and he asked another question, hoping to draw something out of her. "And who is Haldor?"

The second the words flew out of his mouth, he knew he had said the wrong thing. Gúthwyn recoiled, and her eyes flashed dangerously. "How _dare_ you mention his name?" she hissed furiously. "You know nothing of what you speak!"

His eyes widened in surprise, but before he could say anything, she continued. "If you want to know what you can do to make me hate you less, then stay away from me!"

"Gúthwyn—" he started, but she turned around and hastened back along the path, pulling the hood of her cloak over her head as she went.

For a long time, Legolas remained where he was. The conversation had left him wondering in bewilderment what was going on in the young woman's mind. It was clear now, if there had been any doubt before, that this Haldor was behind her hatred and terror of the Elves. Therefore, Haldor had to have been an Elf, but that made no sense, as Gúthwyn was from Rohan, and no Elves in his memory had traveled to that place.

He remembered that King Théoden had sent her as a scout before she came to Rivendell, but it did not seem likely that she had gone to either Lothlórien or Imladris before the Council. He knew for a fact that no mortal woman had been in Mirkwood, so she could not have seen Haldor there—he had never heard of Haldor, anyway. Perhaps he could ask Orophin or Rúmil…

Almost instantly, he dismissed the idea. Gúthwyn's private life was none of his business, and it was certainly not his place to pry.

All the same, he thought, sighing heavily, her behavior was mystifying, and he was grieved to know that he could not amend it.

* * *

Gúthwyn slung Borogor's pack over her shoulders as she stared at the river before her. Anduin the Great it was, newly merged with the Silverlode, and the Fellowship was to travel down it in three Elven boats to reach the Falls of Rauros, where they would disembark and continue the rest of the eastward journey to Mordor. Her fingers shook nervously: At that point, they would almost be in Rohan. She would have to steal the Ring somehow, or Hammel and Haiweth's lives would be in danger.

She sighed, sitting down on a rock for a quick minute's rest. Early in the morning, Haldir had arrived from the Northern Fences of Lothlórien to escort them through Caras Galadhon. By noon, they had come to where she now stood: The banks of the Anduin. All around her, Elves were hurrying to and fro, filling the boats with provisions, and speaking to various members of the Company.

Before long, the Fellowship and Gúthwyn were called over to where Lord Celeborn stood with eight other Elves. Galadriel was nowhere in sight.

"You are indeed high in the favor of the Lady!" Celeborn said to them, and at his words, the Elves withdrew and unwrapped nine cloaks. At first, they seemed to be of an ordinary grey color, but then Gúthwyn looked closer and saw them change to a light green, and then to a soft brown. She blinked. "For she herself and her maidens wove this stuff; and never before have we clad strangers in the garb of our own people."

The Elves stepped forward, and carefully placed the cloaks around their shoulders, fastening them with a leaf-shaped brooch. Gúthwyn flinched as a light hand brushed her shoulders, and felt a familiar nausea threatening her stomach.

"May these cloaks help shield you from unfriendly eyes," Celeborn said solemnly, and then the Elves moved back.

"Thank you, my lord," Aragorn replied, bowing his head. "Your generosity is most appreciated."

After, they went to finish loading the boats with the last few packages lying on the ground. As Gúthwyn was lifting one of them, Boromir came up beside her.

"Hello," she said, giving a small smile. "How are you?"

He nodded. "My heart is at ease, now that we are on the road to my city."

"Are you going to leave the Fellowship when you get there?" she asked him, and he shrugged.

"I am hoping to convince Aragorn to let us rest in the White City, and gather our strength before we head to Mordor," he replied, and picked up several bags. The two of them began making their way towards the boats. "And what of yourself? Do you still intend to leave us when we near Rohan?"

She nodded, somewhat reluctantly. "Théoden needs tidings, and that was what I was sent to bring. I would not delay any longer."

"Perhaps, when this is all over, you can visit Gondor sometime. It is a wonderful place."

"Is that an invitation?" she asked, smiling, but inside a sadness was taking hold of her. No matter what happened, her freedom would end soon, and she would return to Mordor—to live with Haldor, if what the Elf had said were true.

Boromir watched her for a moment. "Yes," he answered. "You will like it there."

"I will think about it," she promised.

Later, the Fellowship gathered around the Lady Galadriel, who had with her several gifts to bestow upon them.

She turned first to Legolas. "My gift for you, Legolas, is a bow of the Galadhrim—worthy of the skill of our woodland kin." The bow she spoke of was magnificent. It was longer than the Elf's older one, and firmer. With it came a quiver. Legolas took them both carefully, and drew back the string on the bow to test its strength. Gúthwyn recalled archery lessons in Mordor, and watched him with little envy.

Then the Lady went to Merry and Pippin. She presented them with two identical knives, which they accepted with expressions of awe on their faces. "These are the daggers of the Noldorin," she told them. "They have already seen service in war."

At the mention of war, Pippin glanced up at her, and his gaze was troubled.

"Do not fear, young Peregrin Took," Galadriel said kindly. "You will find your courage."

He smiled hesitantly, and the Lady's eyes sparkled before she spoke to Sam. "And for you, Samwise Gamgee," she began, holding out a length of rope, "Elven rope made of _hithlain._"

Sam took his gift, and said, "I came without one, and I've been worried ever since. You put my fears to rest, my Lady."

Galadriel smiled at him, and then came to Frodo. "Farewell, Frodo Baggins," she murmured. "I give you the light of Eärendil, our most beloved star." From her robes, she took out a small phial of what at first Gúthwyn thought was water. But as she watched, it shimmered brilliantly in the sunlight. Frodo took it, and glanced up at Galadriel. The Lady bent over and placed a kiss on his brow. "May it be a light for you in dark places, when all other lights go out."

He did not say anything—or could not say anything—as she turned to Boromir. "For you, Boromir of Gondor," she said, "I have this." She withdrew a golden belt, which Gúthwyn recognized immediately to be of great value, and gave it to him. "As royalty itself you will look when you wear this, but do not forget your alliances."

Boromir did not seem to know what to make of those strange words, but he bowed his head. "Thank you," he said gratefully, and clasped the belt around his waist. Galadriel's words were true: Now he appeared kingly, and he seemed to hold himself more upright than before.

Galadriel paused in front of Aragorn. "I have spoken to you already," she said quietly, "but is there aught else that you desire of me at our parting? For darkness will flow between us, and it may be that we shall not meet again, unless it be far hence upon a road that has no returning."

Gúthwyn felt a small chill come over her at the Lady's words, but Aragorn replied, "Lady, you know all my desire, and long held in keeping the only treasure that I seek. Yet it is not yours to give me, even if you would; and only through darkness shall I come to it."

Something was passing between the two that Gúthwyn did not understand; nor did the rest of the Company, from the looks of it. Galadriel smiled sadly.

"Indeed, your road will be long," she answered. "I wish thee luck, and may you hold true to your course."

Aragorn nodded. "If it is my fate to do so."

Galadriel gave him one last look, and then went before Gúthwyn. She felt a twinge of nervousness at the sight of the Elven lady before her, and hastened to say:

"My lady, you need not give me anything." She touched the healed Warg bite. "This is more than I hoped for upon entering this land, and a thousand thanks I may yet say for it."

"I have healed you in body, though your mind is troubled," Galadriel responded, and Gúthwyn's eyes involuntarily widened. "It is not in my power to set it at ease, though my heart tells me that this will take away some of what burdens you."

She then presented the daughter of Éomund with a dagger, sheathed in black leather. As she accepted it and put it on her belt, Gúthwyn wondered at the Lady's hints.

"Use it well," Galadriel bade her, and for a moment it seemed as if the Lady saw right through her with keen blue eyes. The sensation was unsettling.

Before too long it passed, and Galadriel turned to Gimli. "And what gift would a Dwarf ask of the Elves?" she questioned.

Gimli's face was colored red, and he said gruffly, "Nothing. Except to look upon the Lady of the Galadhrim one last time, for she is more fair than all the jewels beneath the earth."

Galadriel laughed, and the sound was similar to the clear cold water that runs down a fountain. Once again, Gimli flushed, and spun in a slow circle, muttering to himself. "Actually, there was one thing… no, no, I could not. It is quite impossible; stupid to ask…"

At that moment, a horn sounded, and all of the Elves stood up. An hour after noon it was, and the time had come for the Fellowship and Gúthwyn to depart from Lothlórien.

"Make your way to the boats," Galadriel told him, though her eyes were on Gimli. "I will be but a moment."

They turned away, leaving the Dwarf and the Elven lady together. Gúthwyn was still puzzling over Galadriel's words to her. How would a dagger remove some of what troubled her, if the problem was within her mind, and not in a foe? Did she mean…? Her thoughts went back to that night she had returned from Haldor's tent and seen Borogor's knife lying on the ground. If Borogor had not emerged from the shadows, she would have been long dead by now. But surely the Lady did not want her to take her own life…

The Company began filing into the boats. Crafted by the Elves, at first the vessels looked extraordinarily light, but when Aragorn, Frodo, and Sam all got onto one (Sam wobbling, and clutching at the wood distrustfully), the boat barely settled an inch further into the water.

Boromir, Merry, and Pippin got into the second. Both Boromir and Aragorn had the paddles, as Hobbits generally avoided being on the water at all costs. Gúthwyn gave them a smile before turning around and realizing that, except for Gimli, she and Legolas were the only ones left.

For a moment, she froze. Terror filled her rapidly, and her breath caught in her throat as she thought of what this would mean. Who knew how long they would be on the river for? She would not last in such close quarters to the Elf. Her hands trembled, and she seriously considered refusing to get on the boat.

Just then, Gimli returned, holding something tightly in his hand and looking rather dazed. "Are we leaving now?" he asked Legolas.

Legolas looked at him closely. "Yes," he replied, then glanced at Gúthwyn. "Can you paddle?" he inquired.

She jumped, and shook her head rapidly. Gimli stepped into front of the boat, and gingerly lowered himself down. Even more panic wormed its way into her, as now she would be sitting directly in front of Legolas.

_If you do not get on this boat,_ she reminded herself, _you will have to stay in Lothlórien, and that will not help Hammel and Haiweth in the least._

So she carefully got into the boat, nearly slipping when Legolas came in after her. As she sat down, she drew her legs in to her chest, and wrapped her arms around her knees. She heard the soft splashing sound of the paddle as it hit the water and quivered, praying that this leg of the journey would be over as swift as it could be.

Then Gimli gasped, and she followed his craned neck to see the Lady Galadriel drifting down the water towards them on a gigantic swan. Gúthwyn blinked in astonishment, and then saw that it was merely a boat, fashioned in the shape of the bird, yet by no means living.

The Lady did not say anything, but lifted up her hand in farewell. As the Fellowship began moving down the Anduin, a song rose into the air, one in some dialect of the Elven language. Gúthwyn did not know what the words were, though it seemed both mournful and hopeful; the voice was enriched with sadness greater than the depths of the earth and a joy higher than the heavens above.

"Galadriel," Gimli breathed, and a wave of shock passed over her as she turned back once more and saw that it was the Lady singing. Her hand was still raised, and as the Company rounded a bend in the river, it looked as though a star had been caught between her fingers: Something shone for the briefest second, and then disappeared. It was the last Gúthwyn ever saw of Lothlórien, the Golden Wood, and of the Lady herself.


	68. Terror Anew

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Six:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. As you are aware of, I am using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Six**

Five days had passed since the Company had departed from Lothlórien. Five days in which they had moved downstream, always going from the early hours of the morning to the late evening. Aragorn had pushed them on in haste, especially as they passed the flat Brown Lands, where no trees grew to protect them from malignant onlookers—but a decision for the Fellowship also lay ahead.

From the beginning, Boromir had argued that they should go to Gondor. In Minas Tirith, he said, they could stay for a little while, and at the least get some more supplies before heading off to the Black Land. Frodo and Aragorn had said nothing in response to this, especially as some of the Company appeared to like this idea, but Gúthwyn did not think it had won their full approval.

She herself was never consulted on these matters, as everyone thought that she was leaving them when they got nearer to Rohan. Indeed, it felt as though time was slowly running out for her—only a few days did she have, at best, before she had to go; only a few days in which to steal the Ring.

It was not that she had not tried yet. She had, the night after they left Lothlórien. It had been her turn to watch, and as it was well past midnight, the others were all sleeping soundly. Or so she had thought. She had been making her way carefully to Frodo, trying to not make any noise, when a sudden movement from the corner of her eye caused her to stop. Aragorn had lifted his head from his pallet and asked her suspiciously what she was doing.

Gúthwyn sighed as the river water flowed past her. Her excuse had been that she was going to relieve herself; then she had had no choice but to disappear further down the banks for some time. When she had returned, Aragorn was sitting up, and had told her that he would take watch duty, for he could not get to sleep. She could not read in his eyes whether he believed her or not, but she was willing to bet that the incident had done nothing to increase his minimal trust in her.

She was taken from her thoughts when the sounds of the boat scraping against a dark shore met her ears. It was after nightfall, but the sky was dimly lit by a few stars that had managed to pierce the blackness. She shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. With nothing but her thoughts to occupy her, which often turned foul and tormented her with terrible memories, the day had been miserable—as the day before, and the day before, and the day before.

Not least because Legolas was just two feet behind her. As they got out of the boat and stepped onto the shore, she instinctively moved as far away from him as she could. Respecting her wishes, he had not spoken to her, except for once or twice in the boat. Each time, she brushed him off with a short reply, and then spent the rest of the day ignoring him. It was childish, she knew, but every time she so much as looked at him she became fearful.

Before long, they had set up camp a short distance away from the shore. Gúthwyn declined the food that was offered to her; she did not feel hungry tonight. Boromir looked at her concernedly, but said nothing, and for that she was grateful. Rather than risk conversation, she turned her gaze to the river, watching a large log floating down it.

Suddenly she frowned. The log had, on its own accord, drifted over to the opposite bank as the Company, against the running water. Boromir had seen it as well; he came up beside her, watching with narrowed eyes.

"Gollum," someone said, and they turned to see Aragorn watching the log. Gúthwyn did not know what he was talking about. "He has tracked us since Moria. I had hoped we would lose him on the water, but he is too clever a waterman."

Boromir looked tense. "And if he alerts the Enemy to our whereabouts, it will make the crossing even more dangerous."

Aragorn was silent, but his shoulders were also taut with worry. Gúthwyn sighed, and leaned back against a small rock. Hopefully this Gollum would not bring any trouble; but if he was a servant of the Enemy, as Boromir's words had hinted at, perhaps he could help her. She did not recognize his name, but those under Sauron's control were from all corners of Middle-earth, not just Mordor.

A quick glance away from the river showed her that Legolas had settled himself not too far from her. She cringed, yet he did not pay her any attention. His bow was in his hands and he was examining it thoroughly, looking as though he longed to practice with it. Pale hands caressed the wood, and as she watched him she shuddered, remembering all too well Haldor's hands sliding up and down her body.

Legolas continued to touch the wood, making himself familiar with its feel against his fingertips, and she winced with each motion. _"Beg…" Haldor whispered, his fingers tracing a curved pattern around her stomach as she panted in the darkness. "Beg, and you will see them again…"_

She leapt to her feet and strode for the cover of a small stretch of woods. It was big enough for her to disappear into, but not so big that she could get lost in. No one asked her what she was doing; they assumed that she had to relieve herself.

When she had gone about a hundred yards or so into the trees, she leaned against one and slid down to the ground. That was a mistake, as her back rubbed painfully into the bark, and she almost cried out from the pain. Then she buried her face in her hands and struggled to take deep breaths. _Calm down,_ she told herself shakily. _You are pathetic, to let something as small as that get to you._

Yet she could not get rid of the fear swelling within her, and after several moments, she was still quivering. Once again she got to her feet, and decided to find the shore; perhaps there the sound of the water would soothe her. _And rid me of this weakness,_ she added to herself.

A minute had passed before she saw the waterline; she pushed out of the trees, and glanced down to where she knew the Company was camped. She could not see them from where she stood, as a large rock blocked them from view. That was good. She sighed in relief, then turned to her left and froze.

Legolas was standing not twenty feet away from her, looking up at the stars. As she watched, he glanced at her, but remained silent.

"Did you follow me?" she asked harshly, folding her arms across her stomach and feeling sick.

He frowned. "Why would I do that?" he replied, and stepped closer to her. Almost before she could blink, he had closed the gap to ten feet. Her eyes widened.

"What are you doing?" she demanded frantically, trying to move away from him. But her legs refused to cooperate with her, and she remained where she was.

He looked politely puzzled, as he always did. "The stars are bright tonight," he said, tilting his head up to gaze at them some more.

She barely noticed. "You could have watched them from the camp," she said shortly, angry with him for disturbing what had been meant to be a peaceful walk.

His eyes fell back on her, and she shivered from their coldness. "Sometimes I have the need for solitude," he told her quietly, "as do we all. And you came out here by yourself, did you not?"

Legolas had her there, and she fell silent. Not wanting to be around the Elf any longer than necessary, she turned away from him, and decided to just continue down the shoreline until she reached the camp. There, at least, she would be guaranteed a few moments without him near her.

"Gúthwyn." His voice echoed from behind her, and she stopped. Slowly, she looked back at him.

"What?" she asked, her voice ruder than was necessary, but she was not about to apologize.

"Have you had anything to eat today?"

The question was strange, and she frowned. "Why does it matter to you?" she snarled.

"I noticed you have been refusing much of the food."

"Well, I thank you for your concern," she snapped at him, "but it is none of your business what I eat or do not eat. Now if you will excuse me, I am going back."

With that, she stalked down the shore, only looking over her shoulder once. Legolas had disappeared; for a moment, this made her wonder, and then she realized that he must have gone into the woods. Sighing, she delayed a little longer before returning to the others, now that Legolas was nowhere in sight, and took a moment to even her breathing. For some reason, the hairs on the back of her neck were on end; it was cool out, but not that much so.

When she walked back into the camp, the first person she saw was Legolas, examining his bow as though he had never left the position. She halted in her tracks, gaping. Had she really tarried on her walk that long?

He clearly sensed her looking at him, for he glanced up at her. She felt her eyes grow wider before she went back to her own pallet, still confused as to how he had gotten back before her.

"Is everything alright?"

She blanched as Legolas crouched down a few feet away from her.

"Y-Yes," she stammered, speaking not to him but to her hands. "W-Why?"

"You are pale, shaky, and sweating," he answered, lowering his voice so that the others could not hear.

Hastily, she wiped the thin layer of perspiration from her forehead. "I am fine," she retorted.

"Have you had anything to eat today?"

Her head swiveled around to stare at him. "You just asked me that not five minutes ago," she said warily, moving a few inches away from him.

"I have not spoken with you at all today," he replied, looking at her in surprise.

"I just talked to you," she said in confusion. Why was he denying it?

Legolas appeared equally bewildered. "You went into the woods," he told her.

"Yes, I know!" She ground her teeth in frustration. What was wrong with him? "From there I went onto the shore, where I saw you!"

He looked at her intently. "I have not moved from this camp since we got here."

For a moment, she merely gawked at him, wondering if he was trying to make her think she had gone insane. But only Haldor ever played mind games with her…

Suddenly she gasped in terror, scrambling to her feet and staring into the woods.

"What is it?" Legolas asked, standing up as well.

She could not speak. Her chest heaved up and down controllably, and she swayed back and forth, nearly choking on the horror that was consuming her.

"Gúthwyn?"

All she could hear was the sound of her own breathing, rapid and shallow, pounding in her ears furiously. She clutched at her mouth, feeling as though she were going to be sick. How could he—this could not—it was not possible—

"Gúthwyn!"

Someone took her by the shoulders, and she whimpered in fright. "Him!" she choked out, and nearly fainted.

"What is going on?" a voice demanded. She struggled against the person restraining her, and felt them release her. Almost immediately her knees buckled beneath her and she fell, crying out as her back connected with the ground.

She struggled to sit up, panicking. Both Aragorn and Legolas were kneeling beside her. Gasping, she tried to move away from them; as she did so her head swam, so that she leaned over and almost vomited.

"What is it?" Aragorn pulled her up so that she was looking directly into his eyes. Again she whimpered, and shrunk away from him, but he did not let go of her.

"N-N-N-N—" She could not even say 'no' or 'nothing.' He was here, he was _here_, and he had spoken to her…

And then she was slapped across the face, so forcefully that it shocked her back into her senses. Aragorn lowered his hand and gripped her arms tightly.

"What happened?" he asked, his voice hard and unyielding.

Haldor.

"She came back here," Legolas started, looking at her worriedly, "and I asked her if she had anything to eat. She told me that I had already said the same thing to her just a few minutes ago. Aragorn, I have not even spoken to her today, but she insisted that it was I. Then she… panicked."

Aragorn's sharp gaze fell on her, and she swallowed the lump forming in her throat. "Well?"

"I-I… Him…" The words would not come.

"Who?"

She paused, trying to rationally weigh her options. Haldor was somewhere on this shore, maybe even watching her right now. If he was, he would know that she had recognized him; he could read her as easily as a book. And if she told the others about him, who could say what he would do? He might not attack her while she was surrounded by the Fellowship, but he might return to Mordor and order the execution of Hammel and Haiweth…

At the thought, she paled, and knew then and there that she could not tell anyone what she had seen.

"Gúthwyn, answer me."

"No one," she said woodenly, reaching up and prizing the Ranger's hands from her shoulders. "It is nothing. Nothing at all."

* * *

"I do not believe her," Aragorn said, his voice cutting through the silence. Legolas glanced over at him.

"Neither do I."

The Dúnadan groaned in frustration, running a hand through his hair. The two of them were the only ones awake; night lay heavily over the river. From where he sat, Legolas could see Gúthwyn's body, curled into a tight ball underneath her blanket.

"Did you see the terror in her eyes?" he asked soberly. He doubted he would soon forget how wide they had been, how frightened and horrified they looked. "That was no fear of the dark."

"Yet she would not say what it truly was," Aragorn replied, gazing off into the night. "Are you sure she told you nothing else, not even when she panicked?"

Legolas nodded. "The one thing I did not understand was 'him,' but you know of that."

"Him…" Aragorn muttered. "Did she mean you?"

He shook his head. "I do not think so." As a matter of fact, he had a feeling he knew exactly whom she was talking about, but she had said it after he had shaken her shoulders; it was probably that that caused the word to fall from her mouth. In any case, he did not want to confide in his friend about Haldor, though he could not quite figure out why.

"I find myself beginning to doubt everything she says," Aragorn said, exhaling loudly and reaching for his pipe. "She hates the Elves, but will not say why. A Warg bite gave her an infection, but she refuses to say how she got it in the first place. Elrond's doubt of her, and now this."

A sudden thought came to Legolas. "Did you ask the Lady Galadriel about her?" he questioned.

Aragorn sighed. "Yet another rebuke to my suspicions. I did indeed ask the Lady, and tell her of my misgivings. But she said that when she looked into Gúthwyn's mind, she saw only two children, and a brief glimpse of a dark-haired man."

"She has children?" Legolas' eyebrows shot up. "How old is she?"

"That was my reaction," Aragorn replied. "Though the Lady does not think they are hers, as the oldest looked to be almost ten, and Gúthwyn cannot be older than twenty. My guess is that she is a nurse of some sort, though that does not seem like a side job that a scout of Théoden would have."

Legolas took another look at Gúthwyn. She was sleeping somewhat restlessly, occasionally turning over. Not once did she uncurl from the tiny ball she had put herself into. "Are you going to question her some more tomorrow?"

The Ranger had already done so, for nearly half an hour, but Gúthwyn stubbornly insisted that she was fine, and had just gotten frightened of the dark. The rest of the Company had watched them curiously, especially Boromir, whom Legolas knew was more friendly with Gúthwyn than most of the others. Nothing, however, had they learned from her.

"No," Aragorn replied. "But I will be watching her very carefully from now on. If anything else happens, she will find that I will not be so lenient."

Legolas looked into his friend's hardened eyes, and knew that it would not go well for Gúthwyn if she caused further trouble.


	69. Amon Hen

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Seven:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. As you are aware of, I am using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Seven**

Gúthwyn sighed wearily as she gazed at the never-ending rock walls on either side of the river, wishing that something would pop out of them to make them more interesting. They had entered this channel almost an hour ago; by now, it was past noon. The current was slow, and as a result, Aragorn, Legolas, and Boromir had had to paddle harder than usual. They were doing so silently, as there was nothing to talk about. Even the very lands seemed to forbid any unnatural noise.

This part of the journey, already tedious to begin with, was made worse by the fact that most of the Company thought she was mad. Boromir, Merry, and Pippin still spoke to her, though it was small consolation when she was not in a boat with any of them. Instead, she was with Gimli, who clearly believed it best to avoid talking with her when possible, and Legolas, who had not said a word to her since the incident three nights ago (although in his case, she thought it was pity that stayed his mouth, and loathed him all the more for it).

She knew she deserved this. Her explanation to Aragorn had not been nearly satisfying enough. But she could not tell them about Haldor, and thus no one understood why she had been trembling nonstop since that night. It terrified her to think that the Elf was following them—_why?_ she wondered, gazing around at the rock walls and half expecting to see his slim form silhouetted against them. Had he been sent to ensure that she was doing what she had been told to do? Or had he escaped on his own and found her somehow, and now sought only to torment her?

Almost unconsciously, her fingers clenched into fists and turned white. It was beyond her to figure out how he had managed to trail the Fellowship, but he had always gone to unimaginable extremes to torture her, even if it was mentally rather than physically. She would never forget those three days she had spent in the dark of his tent, forced to endure his despicable touch, all so he could make her beg…

Her hands clutched at her stomach, and she was nearly sick before gaining control of herself. As it was, she felt queasy for several moments afterwards.

"Look!" The unexpected cry drew her out of her misery, and she glanced up. Her jaw dropped: Before her were two enormous statues, one on either side of the river. They were carved in the likeness of kings, perhaps long forgotten, or maybe even renowned. In any case, she did not recognize them, but the sheer massiveness of their figures was awe-inspiring enough. Her gaze traveled from their feet, larger than the boats the Company traveled in, up to the palms extended outwards in foreboding, and finally upon their heads. Both wore helmets, and their faces were beginning to show the decay of what must have been hundreds and hundreds of years' existence.

Gúthwyn was so amazed by their presence that she did not see what lay beyond them until the boats had passed them by. When she did, her eyes widened even more. The river had opened to a large lake, at the end of which was a vast pinnacle of rock. Birds were flying about it, though it did not look as though any living creature had ever set foot on it. On either side of the lake, the land rose into a great hill. Amon Hen, the Hill of Sight, lay to her right; on the left was Amon Lhaw, the Hill of Hearing. She recognized them from the fact that they were so close to Rohan, and were often noted on maps of the land, although they were not part of the Mark.

Ahead of them, Aragorn began directing his boat to the western shore, towards Amon Hen. Legolas and Boromir followed suit, and within five minutes—there was a strong current from the end of the lake, which sounded like it plunged down as a waterfall—they had landed and were stepping out onto the sandy lawn. Soon the boats were unloaded, and they were starting to make camp. A few of them took shelter in the shade of one of the deteriorating stone statues scattered about; she avoided them, not liking their cool gazes.

"We cross the lake at nightfall," Aragorn said at that moment, and Gúthwyn glanced up from where she had been unrolling her pallet. "We approach Mordor from the north."

Gúthwyn was about to voice the many faults with that plan when Gimli did it for her. "Oh, yes?" the Dwarf asked. "It is just a simple matter of finding our way through Emyn Muil: An impassable labyrinth of razor-sharp rocks! And after that, it gets even better!"

Pippin, who was sitting nearby, glanced up at him in alarm. "Festering, stinking marshlands as far as the eye can see!" Gimli finished.

"Then there are the mountains surrounding Mordor," Gúthwyn pointed out. "Those will not be a mere walk in the countryside, either."

Aragorn looked at both of them. "That is our road," he replied firmly, and then turned to Gimli. "I suggest you take some rest to recover your strength, Master Dwarf."

"Recover my—?" Gimli's mouth opened, and he grumbled loudly. Gúthwyn sighed, and took Beregil's book from her pack. Aragorn was now speaking with Legolas; as always, she felt a twinge of fear at the sight of the Elf, accompanied with a strong surge of shame. She had acted so weak, so pathetic, around him that it was a wonder he had not lost his temper with her already.

Sighing again, she tried to immerse herself in "The Warrior," but for once, the poem about Borogor could not distract her from what was going on around her. She had placed the book beside her when Merry, who had been gathering some wood for a fire, dropped his sticks, looked around, and said:

"Where's Frodo?"

The entire Company scanned the camp, but the Halfling was nowhere to be seen. Then Gúthwyn saw Aragorn's eyes narrow. Following his gaze, her eyes fell upon Boromir's empty pallet.

"We should look for them," Gúthwyn said, getting to her feet. Here was another chance—if she found the Halfling before anyone else, she could wrestle the Ring from him and take off into the woods.

"Yes, let's go!" Merry exclaimed, and with that both him and Pippin were running into the forest.

"Wait!" Aragorn cried, springing after them, but they did not heed his call. "Merry, Pippin, come back! We should form groups—"

Yet then Sam had run off behind the other two Halflings, and Gimli went after him with a roar. Hastily, Gúthwyn, Aragorn, and Legolas all but flung themselves into the woods, chasing after the rest of the Fellowship. In less than a minute, they had all gone in different directions.

Gúthwyn decided to head directly up the hill, praying that Frodo had gone that way. She would have liked to track Sam, who seemed to have a sixth sense solely concerning his master, but the Hobbit was nowhere to be seen. Now and then she heard faint cries of "Frodo!" Before long, however, these all ceased, and silence lay heavily upon her and her surroundings.

_This is not right,_ she thought. The quiet was too absolute for it to be natural. Not a bird sang amongst the trees; it seemed as if even the leaves were not rustling. The forest appeared to be waiting for something, though she knew not what.

She climbed a little farther, and then came into a clearing. Legolas and Gimli were there.

"Have you seen anyone?" Gimli asked when he noticed her. She shook her head, moving closer to him, but still keeping a safe distance from the Elf.

"The forest," she said, gazing up at the trees above her, "is too quiet."

To her surprise, Legolas nodded. "I felt in my heart that we should not stay here," he replied, "but already evil is at work."

Almost as soon as he finished his sentence, Gúthwyn heard the faint, very distant _clank_ of metal on metal.

Legolas stiffened. "Did you hear that?" he asked them.

Gúthwyn strained her ears, and then cries rose into the air. Her fists clenched.

"It is Aragorn!" Gimli cried, withdrawing his axe. Just as quickly, Gúthwyn and Legolas were holding their own weapons before them.

"Hurry!" Legolas exclaimed, and with that they were running into the trees. The Elf led them on by sound; the cries and clashing metal were getting louder. For a moment, Gúthwyn debated separating from the Elf and Dwarf to continue her search for Frodo, but with the possible promise of a battle in front of her, she decided that the Halfling could wait. It was there that she made her greatest mistake on the mission.

After a minute of running through the woods in haste, they came up behind a stone structure—the Seeing Seat, she thought, her eyes widening at the sight of the chair carven into the rock—and saw Aragorn on the other side of it, surrounded by at least a hundred Uruk-hai. Several of them lay dead at his feet, but more of them were arriving by the minute, and he would not be able to fight them all on his own.

Without a second thought, they leaped into the fray. Gúthwyn caught one of the Uruks by surprise, and quickly cut off his head before turning around and relieving another of its own. These were the Uruk-hai the Isengard slaves had lived in terror of for so long; now that she had her chance to seek vengeance on them, she was not about to let it go. Savage pleasure arose in her as she slaughtered another, growing all the more as she smelled its blood in the air. Soon the forest was disappearing, and only Saruman's servants were left in a world of carnage and destruction… it was a place she thrived in.

The battle became a whirlwind of black. All around her, she could see more Uruk-hai appearing, and some were sprinting off into the woods. A startling thought occurred to her: That they had known, beforehand, the number of the Company, and had been sent to find the Ringbearer. Those, therefore, who were running were not fleeing—they were seeking the Halfling. _How many are there?_ she wondered anxiously as she stabbed her sword through one of the creatures' stomach. He fell to the ground and gasped out his life, filling her with a brief sense of satisfaction before another Uruk attacked her.

The fighting had been going on for a couple of minutes when all of a sudden the loud, booming call of a horn echoed through the woods. For a brief instant, they all stopped, some of the Uruks glancing around nervously.

"Boromir," she heard Aragorn say, and she recalled the horn that she had always seen him wearing. Before she had time to register that her friend was in need of support, the Ranger started to run towards the sound. More Uruks fell upon him, halting his progress, adamantly determined to keep him from helping his comrade. The battle started moving downhill as she, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli attempted to go to the Gondorian's aid, but there were too many of the Uruks. It seemed as though they were multiplying rather than diminishing.

"Aragorn, go!" Legolas yelled, and Gúthwyn turned to see him fire a shot towards an Uruk that had been wrestling with the Ranger. The creature crumbled to the ground with an arrow in its back, but Aragorn disentangled himself and was unharmed.

"We will take care of these for you!" Gimli roared, then growled ferociously as he drove his axe into an Uruk's chest.

Aragorn nodded, and ducking under the outstretched arm of an Uruk, he darted away from the battle. Before long his figure had disappeared into the woods, leaving his companions to finish the Uruk-hai. It did not matter to Gúthwyn much, for that meant more blood for her to spill, and more heads for her to cleave. And so she attacked the Uruks furiously, refusing to relent up on them. Legolas and Gimli took a similar approach; as they worked, she could see that slowly the Uruks' forces were dwindling down.

At length, only a few remained. Boromir was still out there, and she prayed that he had not yet perished. He was a stout man, but if he was overwhelmed… she did not want to think of it. "Gimli, Legolas!" she yelled, waving her arms to get their attention. Right now, Boromir needed them more than she did.

They looked over at her as she fended off another Uruk. "Go on!" she called after it lay on the ground, choking out its miserable life. "I can finish off the rest!"

"Are you sure?" Legolas shouted. There were only seven left—now six, as she decapitated one—but she could tell he did not like the idea of abandoning someone, least of all a woman, to Saruman's servants.

"Yes! Go!"

At her words the Elf and Dwarf turned and sprinted towards where they had last heard Boromir's horn. They did not have to fight off Uruks as they retreated, for most of them were closer to Gúthwyn, and were now eyeing her menacingly. Despite her earlier confidence, she found herself slightly nervous as the Uruks started to converge on her. _Do not think, just do!_

With that, she ran into the danger, surprising the Uruks with her boldness. Two more fell before they knew what was happening. The others were not so slow on the uptake; she barely managed to turn around before another one was upon her. His hand reached out to grab her arm as his heavy sword swung downward, and she was almost unable to slip away. When she did, she quickly drove her blade into his side, and then whirled around. Another Uruk held his sword aloft, foolishly exposing his chest. She slashed across it, and some of the black blood spattered onto her hands.

_Only two left,_ she told herself in relief. This time, both of them attacked her at once. She was forced to duck under the arm of one, only to meet the swinging fist of another. Her head felt as though it would explode from the agony, but she did not lose her footing. She could not. With a cry, siphoning into it some of the pain she felt, she kicked the offending Uruk in the knee, causing him to slightly bend over. She grabbed his hair, wrinkling her nose at the stink, and slit his throat. Before the other could take advantage of her occupation, she darted behind the dying Uruk, using him as a shield.

The last creature tried to run around his fallen comrade, but she matched his movements with her own, keeping the dead creature firmly between the two of them. When the moment was right, she flung the corpse away from her, sending it crashing into its living counterpart. She leaped forward and drove her sword through its head, watching in utmost satisfaction as it shrieked and writhed before collapsing to the ground.

And then, all was silent. Gúthwyn panted heavily, then retrieved her sword, sheathed it, and stood up straighter. In what direction had Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli gone? She could not remember. None of the trees stood out to her, and for a moment she considered waiting for a few moments until whatever Boromir's peril was had ended, then calling for them. It was certainly better for her not to attempt to find her own way: She got her directions hopelessly confused, and her journey to Rivendell, begun seven months ago—it seemed like so much longer—was no small indicator of that.

She was standing there, trying to determine the best course of action, when two hands wrapped around her waist and pulled her backwards.


	70. Death Brings No Release

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:**

When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:**

I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Eight:**

Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. As you are aware of, I am using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Eight**

Frantically, Gúthwyn struggled against her captor, but their grip on her was too tight, and her back was pressed firmly into their chest. As she squirmed and kicked vainly at their legs, her eyes fell on the hands: Pale, long… ones that were familiar, ones that had caressed her in the dark…

Then she was roughly turned around. Haldor's face was less than an inch from hers.

"No!" she shrieked. Terror overwhelmed her and she screamed hysterically, beating her fists against him to no avail. "No!"

Suddenly he pressed his lips against hers, cutting off her cries. She nearly choked as his tongue plunged into her mouth, cruelly and ravenously reacquainting itself before pulling away.

"H-How?" she gasped, feeling as though she would vomit. He smirked at her horror, his hands still pinning her to him tightly.

"Surely you did not think the Dark Lord would just let you go forth from his land without ensuring that you held to the task?" he questioned her, letting one of his hands lift up and touch her cheek. She cringed, whimpering, but could not move against him. "It has been healed…"

"Y-You have f-f-followed me?" Her voice wavered pitifully.

His sinister, quiet laugh pounded in her ears. "Almost immediately after you left. Need I say, it was one of the more tedious journeys of my life… I thought you would get lost before you even got around the Misty Mountains."

"D-Did you t-touch me while I s-slept?" she asked. The question had terrified her when she thought Legolas was Haldor; now she was afraid to know what the answer was.

Haldor smiled. "Maybe; then again, perhaps I did not."

"W-What about M-Moria and Lothlórien?" she pressed, trembling in his arms. "Were you th-there as w-well?"

"Do not be foolish," he snapped at her. "I crossed over the mountains and followed you from the East Gate. While the Fellowship was in Lothlórien, I waited along the banks of the Anduin, biding my time… And then you saw me one night, did you not?"

She shuddered violently. "Y-You did that on p-purpose…"

"It was well worth it, to see your reaction when you returned to the camp," Haldor whispered, leaning closer to her so that his lips almost brushed hers again. She cringed and tried to pull away from him, but could not even move.

"Haldor, please, let me go!" she begged, hating the pleading tone in her voice, yet willing to do anything to get his hands off of her.

"Now, why would I do that?" Haldor asked, grinning maliciously. "I have just begun—and look! A visitor."

Quickly he swung her around again, pinning her arms against her back so that she was utterly helpless against him. Gúthwyn squinted, and saw someone running through the woods towards them. She caught a flash of golden hair and whimpered…

"I do believe it is Legolas," he said, and she could almost hear the smirk in his words. "My, my, even I could not have asked for better."

Just behind Legolas were Aragorn and Gimli. Gúthwyn's heart nearly failed her as all three of them ran into the clearing, then stopped short at the sight of her in Haldor's grip.

For a moment, there was a dead silence. Gimli was gaping at them, staring back and forth between Haldor and Legolas. Both the prince and Aragorn looked thunderstruck. The Ranger was the first to recover.

"Who are you?" he called harshly, his hand curling around the hilt of his sword.

Haldor laughed. "There is no need to be hostile, Dúnadan," he said, tightening his hold on Gúthwyn. She moaned, struggling futilely in his clutch.

"Release her!" Legolas demanded, and lifted his bow, fitting an arrow to it faster than the eye could see.

"I would think twice before firing that, my friend," Haldor said. Gúthwyn felt herself being lifted slightly, so that her body was shielding his own.

"Please, let go…" she whispered. A thin film of sweat was settling on her forehead, and she was shaking uncontrollably. He ignored her, and then she heard him hiss in satisfaction as Legolas reluctantly lowered his bow.

Aragorn stepped closer. "Who are you?" he asked again.

Haldor gave a mock bow, pressing Gúthwyn down along with him. When he straightened, he replied, "One who holds the interests of your Company at heart."

"What do you mean by interests, Elf?" Gimli growled. His knuckles were white around his battle axe.

"Speak when you are spoken to, you ignorant Dwarf!" Haldor's words lashed out, and Gúthwyn winced as they passed over her.

"He is our friend," Aragorn said, and from his eyes there blazed such a fire that Gúthwyn's own widened. "As is Gúthwyn. Release her at once!"

Again, Haldor laughed. "Do you really want me to do that, Aragorn?" he asked quietly.

"What do you mean?" The Ranger's face hardened dangerously.

"You know what I mean," Haldor answered. Gúthwyn felt his hand slide down her right arm and stiffened, arching away from him. "In your heart, you have known it all along."

"Make yourself clearer." Aragorn took another step forward.

"Are you saying that you have never doubted a thing she says? That her actions have never seemed strange to you? That it seemed, whenever you questioned her, she was purposefully avoiding answering it? Do not lie, Dúnadan, I know all of these thoughts have passed through your mind. I can read it in your eyes. Even now you are uncertain."

"What are you doing?" Gúthwyn muttered to Haldor. Then she gasped, for he had twisted her arm. He kept up the pressure until her breathing was uneven and rapid; then he slowly let go.

"I am warning you now, stranger, that if you do not set her free, then the weight of the consequences will fall heavily on you!" Aragorn began to withdraw his sword as he spoke, but the sight of the blade gleaming in the sunlight did nothing to intimidate Haldor.

"If I set her free," Haldor said in response, "then it will be you who suffer for it, not I."

"Explain yourself," Legolas commanded him, his voice deadly quiet and serious.

"You did not know?" Haldor faked astonishment, all the while moving his hand further down Gúthwyn's arm. A sickening feeling started settling itself in her stomach.

"No, no, please, please!" she cried as his fingers closed around her wrist and began forcing it out from behind her. "Stop!"

Over her pleas, Haldor continued. "So the black cloak and scarves did not set off a warning in your minds? Nor the Orkish weapons? Not even, Aragorn, the time when you saw her walking towards Frodo in the middle of the night, when she thought everyone was asleep? Did you never wonder to yourself why those things were?"

"Who are you?" Aragorn shouted. He took several steps forward, but when he had closed the gap to twenty feet Gúthwyn suddenly saw the silver edge of a dagger placed at her throat.

She froze, staring at the blade, trying to keep her breathing steady. Aragorn halted as well.

"My identity is of no importance to you," Haldor said lightly, as though they were having this conversation over breakfast. He pressed the knife into Gúthwyn's flesh, and she felt a small trickle of blood running down her throat. She gulped. "Long before your mother bore you I was here, and long after you die I shall remain. But we are not talking about me—we are talking about Gúthwyn, and what she has apparently neglected to tell you."

"What are you doing?" she choked again, slightly hysterical.

"Do not speak in riddles!" Gimli called, his voice rumbling menacingly. "Say something that we can understand without putting a strain on our minds!"

Haldor ignored him. "You begin to see it now, Aragorn," he spoke softly. The Ranger glanced from him to Gúthwyn. "You see it…"

Aragorn said nothing, but as Haldor held aloft Gúthwyn's wrist, she saw his eyes dart to it and widen. She felt as though she would vomit.

Slowly, Haldor began removing the glove that had for so long covered the Eye of Sauron, branded cruelly upon her wrist over three years ago. She knew what was happening and struggled terrifically. "No!" she cried, trying to twist her arm out of his grasp. "Stop!"

She kept squirming, but Haldor dug the knife further into her throat. "Do not fear…" he whispered silkily.

The glove fell to the foliage, and for the briefest instant she saw the hideous Eye staring at her. Then, with a painful jerk, Haldor turned her wrist around and showed it to the others.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked loudly. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli looked as though they had been slapped. Their eyes were fixated upon the mark; Aragorn's smoldered with anger. "Yes, Dúnadan: The sign of the Enemy! The very Enemy she swore she would die, rather than submit to!"

Every word of Haldor's grated against her numb mind. Gúthwyn was limp in his arms, unable to believe that he had just revealed her. _This is not happening…_ she thought.

It was. "And do you know why Gúthwyn is traveling with you? It is not because she is afraid of the Orcs." Haldor snickered at the idea. "Oh, no. She has a far better reason."

Horrified, Gúthwyn twisted around to stare at him. His relentless blue eyes pinned her down far more effectively than his arms had, and the words stumbled out of her mouth.

"W-W-What are you d-doing?" she gasped for the third time. "Y-You w-would not…"

"You see," Haldor continued, paying no heed to her terrified speech, "Gúthwyn is one of the Dark Lord's most prized slaves."

Legolas' look as his eyes met hers was so unbearable that she could not stand it for more than a few seconds. Aragorn's gaze was disgusted.

"So prized, as a matter of fact, that she was sent out of Mordor to find something of value to Sauron. You know of what I speak."

Gimli's glare was just as fierce as it had been moments ago, but now the burning hatred was focused on her.

"The One Ring!" Haldor cried. "She was sent to kill the Halfling—poor, innocent little Frodo Baggins—and take the Ring back to the Dark Lord, so that he might rise up again, stronger than before!"

Gúthwyn felt a strange, horrified dullness wrap itself around her. He had told them. Her mission was exposed… she would be killed, and never return to Mordor… Hammel and Haiweth were waiting for her…

"I do not think I will be needing this anymore," Haldor said nastily, and slipped the dagger back into its sheath. Her mind was still swimming. Hammel and Haiweth… they would be murdered… she had failed them…

A hand reached down and began stroking her hair. "What is it, Gúthwyn?" Haldor asked. "You should have known that your guise would not last."

Something stirred in her. "You killed them," she whispered. Hammel and Haiweth. Dead. Their bodies lying broken on the ground.

"What did you say?" He was taunting her, now only rubbing the salt in the open wound. "I cannot hear you."

"You killed them…"

Amidst the numbness, she could feel another emotion rising within her. Anger. A sudden hate, of the most blinding kind, one that consumed her swiftly and reared its furious head…

"_You killed them!_" she screamed suddenly, and her left elbow connected solidly with Haldor's stomach. As the Elf flinched, she thrust herself forward before he had the time to reset his loosened grip. Adrenaline was rushing through her as she broke free from his grasp, stumbled forward a few feet, then whirled around to face him.

He could not conceal the surprise on his face. "Well done, Gúthwyn," he breathed, looking at his hands, where she had just been seconds ago. "But what are you going to do now?"

Gúthwyn knew that no matter what happened, she would die. If Haldor did not kill her, then Aragorn would. And the children would perish—of that she was certain. However, as the rage coursed through her veins, she made up her mind to avenge herself before leaving the world. Avenge the children, Beregil, and Borogor.

She withdrew her sword from her sheathe. "Fight me," she ordered, her voice low and shaky.

For a second, he looked taken aback. But when she held her ground, and her blade, he began laughing. "Do you seriously think to challenge me, Gúthwyn? Alone, surrounded by foes? Without dear Borogor to treat your wounds afterwards?"

She started at the mention of Borogor, and felt even more hatred being poured into her. "Take out your sword," she snarled, a part of her hardly daring to believe she was speaking like this to Haldor, but the other part of her saying that he deserved this. And if it were in her power to do so, he would walk out of the clearing with at least one limb missing.

Haldor's eyes narrowed. "You do not know what you are doing."

"Perhaps not," Gúthwyn replied, her arms beginning to shake with fury. "In that case, are you too much of a coward to take advantage of me? As you so often have done before now?"

A smile came to his face. "Then it is goodbye, Gúthwyn," he said, and a ringing noise sounded through the clearing as he withdrew his own sword. It was of far better make than hers. "For you will not leave these woods alive."

Out of the corner of her eye, Gúthwyn saw Aragorn moving closer, his own sword at the ready. "Stay out of this!" she yelled at him, holding her blade up higher as she prepared to face Haldor for what would be the last fight of her life. She was not going to let the Ranger stop them.

"Good, good," Haldor murmured, his cold eyes gleaming. "Are you ready, Gúthwyn?"

In response, she lunged forward, and sent a strike to his shoulder. Effortlessly, Haldor blocked it, and before she had time to even blink he returned with a far more powerful one of his own. She managed to parry the attack; for the next minute, their blades were a whirlwind of flashing metal. Try as he might, Haldor could not get under her guard. Nor was she anywhere close to getting under his.

At one point, they both drew away from each other. Gúthwyn's breathing was ragged as she glared at him.

"You have done far better than expected, young one," Haldor told her, as though they were at a sparring practice. He was not even sweating. "I must admit that I am rather shocked."

"It was him..." Her eyes darted to the side for the briefest instant, and she saw that Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli were circling the two of them. "He taught me."

Haldor's smirk broadened. "I should have known," he said. "He was always helping you, was he not? Fool."

At the insult, she felt her blood boiling. "_How dare you?_" she shrieked, and leaped at him. He was ready for her; indeed, she soon realized she had been provoked and manipulated, just as she always had been. The knowledge made her fight with a vengeance, but even then Haldor blocked all of her strikes with ease. He, in turn, upped the ante. She found herself being driven back, despite all that she could do. Her blocks were becoming sluggish.

They were almost at the trees when Haldor sent her such a blow that, when she tried to fend it off, the force of it caused her to spin around. And then her back exploded in pure agony. As she crumbled to her knees, screaming, she felt the blood running down her mangled skin. Haldor had slashed diagonally across her entire back, opening up almost if not all of the wounds previously there.

Before long, her cries diminished to rapid, heavy breathing, occasionally punctured by a moan. She clutched at her back with her left hand and leaned forward, whimpering as new bursts of pain raced through her.

"And so comes the end of Gúthwyn the proud, Gúthwyn the ignorant!" Haldor's voice, each note pounding against her head, was drawing closer to her. She pictured him raising his sword, preparing to deliver the final strike.

When he spoke again, his words were quieter, but they still managed to sound throughout the clearing. "Do not fear, Gúthwyn." If she reached backwards, she knew she would be able to touch him. "After all, you will see Borogor…"

Suddenly, her right hand tightened around the hilt of her sword. With a cry, she lifted it slightly and drove it backwards with all her might. Before Haldor could do anything, she felt the blade pierce the flesh of his leg, and then come out the other end. As he stumbled—for the first time in her recollection, stumbled—she yanked the blade back to her, and scrambled away on her knees until she heard something hitting the ground.

Her heart skipped a beat as she gradually got to her feet and looked at her sword. It was covered in bright red blood. Then she turned around, and her eyes widened in shock. Haldor was on his knees before her, the fire in his eyes so brilliant that if she gazed at them for more than a few seconds, she had to look away.

Slowly, hesitantly, she began walking to him. His sword was on the ground beside him, but he made no move to retrieve it as she moved towards him with her own raised. Her blood was racing through her. _I can kill him right now,_ she thought to herself and trembled. _I can kill him right now._

But as she came within a foot's distance of him, so that she was towering over him, there was one thing she had to do.

"I loved him," she whispered. Her eyes watered and blurred, but still she watched Haldor to see his reaction.

For a moment, he looked at her. Disgust was lining each of his features. "You disappoint me," he spat, and his words lashed out at her, far crueler than any brutality of a whip or knife.

Her voice shook. "Maybe," she said quietly. "But now…" she placed her sword on his shoulder, so that it was just touching his throat. One swift motion, and his head would be separated from his body. That was all it took.

Even facing death, he chuckled. "Are you really going to kill me, Gúthwyn?" he asked, his eyes holding hers. As she stared into them, they seemed to burn holes right through her.

"I should…" she murmured, but even as she spoke, the blade was getting heavier, and a great tiredness was settling over her. "You would deserve it."

He said nothing, and merely looked at her. Her eyes were locked onto his. _What am I thinking?_ she thought in despair. Her blade trembled. _I could never kill him. He is too powerful._

Haldor seemed to know what was going through her mind. The corners of his mouth curved upwards, and she quailed at the sight.

_No!_ another part of her argued. _What are you doing? Hammel and Haiweth will be murdered because of him! And what of Beregil? Do you remember Borogor being forced to kill him? Think of all that he has done, the least of which was not to you!_

"I should…" she repeated. _But I will never be able to._

She met his eyes one last time, and lowered her sword. It clattered to the ground. "I cannot do this,' she said wearily. Turning around, she began walking away from him. Aragorn's incredulous face met hers, and she looked down in shame. She had accused Haldor of being a coward, but she was the craven one.

Then she heard the Elf getting to his feet: The movements, normally so quiet, were now clumsy, and the leaves rustled beneath him. "Stop," he ordered her, the malice in his voice so intimidating that she quailed.

Almost against her will, Gúthwyn halted. Her eyes were brimming with tears. _It has always been this way,_ she told herself. _I have always obeyed him._

"Turn around." For a full minute, she hesitated. Then, reluctantly, her feet moved in a circle until she was facing Haldor. She could not meet his eyes.

Indeed, she could see the fury radiating from him as he issued a third command. "Come."

Like the dutiful slave she was, no matter how much she tried to deny it, she walked towards him, her head bowed. When she was within arm's reach he grabbed her by her tunic, lifting her effortlessly upwards so that their faces were aligned.

She squirmed and struggled uselessly as he yelled, "You are pathetic! You do not walk away from me!"

"No, please…" she whimpered, terrified of his eyes. They were destroying her.

"You do not run from a fight!" he roared, shaking her in rage. "You are a pathetic, disgusting, worthless _whore!_"

With that, he flung her down to the ground. She landed on her back and could not even breathe. What little air she had left in her lungs vanished when Haldor stomped a booted foot down on her chest.

"And now," he said, no trace of a smirk on his face as she choked and gasped, "you will die, just as the children will."

She was powerless to do anything as he put one leg on either side of her, pressing a knee into her gut as he bent down. _This is the end,_ she thought, but could not even find the energy to fear it. He was right, anyway—she would see Borogor, and the children would be there…

Haldor placed the tip of his sword at her throat, and leaned close. Then, suddenly, she knew: She did not want to die. She did not want to die here, to be known forever as the woman who tried to steal the Ring from Frodo Baggins. As Haldor touched her face, his fingers lingering on her Warg bite, she cringed, but at the same time her hand closed around the dagger Galadriel had given her. He did not notice.

"You have failed," he whispered, and a manic light glimmered in his eye.

At that moment, she swung the dagger upwards. It drove into the side of his head, thrusting him to the left; at the same time, his sword slipped, so that it fell harmlessly to the side. Haldor roared, reaching down for her throat. Before his fingers closed around the skin, she yanked the dagger from his cheek, and began stabbing him in the face wherever she could, screaming wildly as the blood poured down on her.

He was shrieking in pain as well… they were both yelling, the sounds echoing hideously throughout the forest, and still she thrust the knife into his flesh, over and over again, long after his cries had ceased…

And then, as she took the blade out for what seemed like the hundredth time, he collapsed on top of her. Terrified shrieks rose into the air as Gúthwyn felt herself being smothered by his body; panicking, she slapped and kicked at him until he rolled off and landed face-first on the ground.

Now only her breathing, tinged with horror and hysteria, interrupted the utter silence in the clearing. Gúthwyn sat up, whimpering when she saw that she was soaked in blood. Was it hers? Her gaze traveled over to where Haldor was… He had not moved.

She tried to say his name, but her throat felt as though it were full of the scarlet fluids covering her, and all that came out was a strangled moan. Hesitantly, but unable to do anything else, she reached out for the Elf. Another cry escaped her lips as her fingers brushed against his skin; hastily, she drew them back. Haldor remained still.

Once more, she touched him, nearly clamping a red hand over her mouth when she did so. Every fiber in her body was shaking uncontrollably as she slowly turned him over. _W-What have I d-done?_ she wondered, quivering, even in her mind stumbling over the words.

Haldor, the one whom had raped, tortured, and blackmailed her for three years lay stiff and unmoving, his face almost recognizable. She could see none of his pale skin through the blood—it was everywhere. Irresistibly, she felt her hand being drawn to his chest, to where his heart was. She placed her palm upon his chest, feeling for a steady thump beneath her fingers.

There was none. Haldor of Mordor had been killed, defeated at last by the very woman he had broken and enslaved.

Her breath caught in her throat, and then burst from her mouth in a series of sharp, short gasps. She slid her hand up to his face; a choked cry rose into the air as she felt the mangled flesh. An overpowering urge to see his eyes came upon her—yet it was against her will that she began wiping the blood off of them, and she shook violently as she did so.

As the liquid came off on her fingers, she froze. Haldor's icy blue eyes were opened, staring cruelly up at her even in death. From that moment on they were branded into her as was the Eye of Sauron, not to depart from her mind no matter how hard she tried to banish them. And then she knew—_knew_, not just 'knew,' that he was dead, never to touch her again.

She scrambled away from him and began vomiting. Horrible gagging noises came from her throat as the liquid spewed onto the ground, but even as she retched they became softer. The world around her was turning black, and as she crawled weakly to the side, she felt all consciousness leave her. Without even a cry, she crumbled to the foliage, and lay as still as the Elf beside her.


	71. A Fork In the Road

**The Rohan Pride Trilogy**

**Part One: Alone**

**Book Three**

**By: WhiteLadyOfTroy**

**Summary:  
**When Gúthwyn, the youngest child of Théodwyn and Éomund, becomes a slave of Sauron, she makes a deadly bargain with the Dark Lord. If she fails at the task he sets before her, then the lives of those she loves will be compromised.

**About the Trilogy:  
**I have decided to do what Tolkien did with his books. _The Fellowship of the Ring_ had two books within the text, as did _The Two Towers_ and _The Return of the King_. The only change I have made is the first part in my trilogy: Alone. This will be divided into three books, the first book explaining how Gúthwyn got to where _The Fellowship of the Ring_ started.

**About Chapter Sixty-Nine:  
**Okay, I'm assuming you all know the deal about names. As you are aware of, I am using a blend of both movie and book canon. Sorry for any confusion. Once again, please correct me on anything that seems amiss, out-of-character, or non-canon. Also, regarding archery and swordplay—I really don't know what the hell I'm talking about, so bear with me. I've had a few archery lessons, but nothing major. **Important:** Here the story begins to become a little less accurate, canon-wise. I have tried my best to keep it realistic, but sometimes it's just not possible.

**Chapter Sixty-Nine**

The first thing Gúthwyn was aware of when she woke up was a pain in her back, dull as her eyes blinked away sleep, but then increasing so that she nearly gasped. Yet not a sound did she utter as she looked around, wondering where she was; nor did she move from where she lay on her stomach.

Behind her, something was making strange shuffling noises on the ground. Whatever it was was some distance away, and she was about to push herself up when her eyes fell upon her hands. They were covered in blood, some of it still glistening in the sun. That was when the memories swarmed over her.

Haldor, grabbing her from the waist as she recovered from an Uruk-hai attack. Her screams attracting Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. Haldor revealing to them that she was a servant of the Enemy. Hammel, Haiweth… dead. Challenging him to a fight. She had walked away… and then he had yelled at her. Thrown her to the ground and made to kill her. But she had won. She had won, and she was alive.

Which meant that, as long as no one from Mordor knew that Haldor was dead, Hammel and Haiweth were still safe, if only she could get away from Aragorn.

A gasp burst from her as she rolled over and flung herself up to a sitting position. Immediately she cried out, for all of her weight had been on her back; even though it was for but a second, the agony was unbelievable.

"Stay where you are." The harsh voice grated on her ears, and wildly she looked around. Her eyes widened in panic as they saw Aragorn.

Frantically, she realized that her sword and Galadriel's dagger were gone. Her pack lay out of reach, so she could not retrieve Borogor's spare knife. Now she had no defense; Aragorn, on the other hand, had his sword—sheathed at the moment, but not for long—swinging from his hip, and Ilúvatar knew how many daggers he had hidden in his clothing.

She began backing away from him.

"Do not move another foot!" His order stopped her in her tracks. Breathing heavily, Gúthwyn glanced at the rest of her surroundings. She was on the lawn where they had landed the Elven boats, though one of them was inexplicably on the other side of the lake. Legolas, Gimli, Boromir, and the Hobbits were nowhere in sight.

She barely had time to digest this information before Aragorn strode over to her. As she gazed up at him, unable to do anything, she noticed just how tall he was.

"Get up," the Ranger spat.

Hastily she got to her feet, simultaneously wrapping her arms around her stomach. She found herself looking into his eyes, which blazed with a terrible fire. Shuddering, she broke the stare.

"When Legolas and Gimli return, we will discuss your fate," he told her, and she marveled that his tone was so level, even as his glare pinned her to where she stood.

"W-What of the others?" she asked hesitantly.

Aragorn was about to answer her when something else caught his attention, and he glanced over her shoulder. She turned; her heart stopped as she saw Legolas and Gimli coming towards them, carrying a bier constructed of thick branches lashed together with bowstrings. Boromir lay upon it, his arms folded across his still chest and his eyes lifeless beneath the closed lids.

She gazed at him in horror. "H-How?" she asked, feeling the tears springing to her eyes. Legolas and Gimli looked at her, seeming surprised that she was awake, but did not say anything.

"How?" she asked again, turning to Aragorn. He read the despair in her face and replied, quietly:

"He fell defending Merry and Pippin from those creatures."

Legolas and Gimli were placing Boromir in one of the boats. She moved towards the Gondorian, hardly able to believe that he was dead. The Elf and Dwarf stepped aside as she approached, Gimli looking as though he had half a mind to stop her, but she paid them no heed. She could not even cringe at her proximity to Legolas. Instead she stepped into the water, hardly noticing its coldness as it splashed around her ankles.

No, it was Boromir who held her attention. Repressing the lump attacking her throat, Gúthwyn reached out shakily to touch his face. She saw the numerous arrow wounds in his chest, though they had been neatly tended to, and nearly burst out in tears. He had been so kind to her, even when the others did not trust her or thought her mind was gone, and had even wanted her to visit him in Gondor. Now, more than ever, she regretted that most of what she had told him had not been the truth.

Her hand lightly brushed his skin, and she winced as the cool flesh passed beneath her fingertips. Gently, she went to stroke his hair, arranging it carefully about him. He lay peacefully, much like Borogor had.

"Farewell, my friend," she whispered, then leaned over and kissed Boromir's brow. When she straightened, she turned away, hardly able to bear the sight of his dead body. The painful knowledge that she had not gotten a last chance to speak with him tore at her from the inside, and when she glanced up to see Legolas watching her pityingly, she could not conceal the tears that were blurring her vision.

Slowly she moved back on shore. Aragorn came to stand beside her, and they both watched as the Elf and Dwarf cast their fallen comrade out to the lake. Gúthwyn's breathing was ragged, and she pressed her hand over her mouth as Boromir floated towards the great rocky pinnacle. The belt Galadriel had given him twinkled in the sunlight, just above the horn he had carried with him—now, it was cloven in two.

It seemed to take him forever to reach the waterfall. When he did, the sprays of foam quickly enveloped the boat, so that she could no longer see him. And so passed Boromir, son of Denethor, Steward of Gondor. Later, she heard rumor that his boat had been seen far down the river, almost to the Sea; men said that the magic of the Elves protected the boat from sinking, as well as his body from decaying. But at that moment, the misery shrouding her was so thick that she could scarcely see through it.

She, Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli had stood in silence for a time when at length Aragorn stirred and turned to her. "Come with me," he said.

Gúthwyn followed him back onto the lawn, too tired to argue. He told her to stand before him, and she did. Legolas and Gimli moved over to them, watching intently.

"Are you indeed a servant of the Enemy?" he asked her. It was a mere formality, and her answer would not count for anything.

"I was in his army," she muttered dully.

For a long time, Aragorn looked at her. She thought she saw disappointment in his eyes, and cringed.

At length he spoke. "Though Boromir fought valiantly," he said, and she stiffened, glancing at the Falls of Rauros, "he was unable to save Merry and Pippin. The Orcs carried them away."

Her mouth opened slightly, her heart twisting as she thought of the poor Halflings being held captive by the brutal Uruk-hai.

"Frodo and Sam," Aragorn continued, now gazing at her keenly, "have crossed the Nen Hithoel, and are continuing their journey to Mordor."

His words hit her like a slap to the face. She swayed, nearly stumbling before regaining control of herself. "He is gone?" she breathed, staring across the lake to the eastern shore, where the boat had been abandoned.

"Yes," Aragorn replied. "The Ring is gone, and out of our reach as well as yours."

She half-considered running for the river, but she knew it was a foolish idea. Legolas would shoot her before she had even gotten her feet wet.

"And now, you have a choice before you."

At Aragorn's words, she tensed, and looked back at him in confusion. "What do you mean?" she asked guardedly. "Are you not going to kill me?"

Aragorn's eyes were narrowed, though his response was not nasty in tone. "No," he replied. "I have little pity for you, but you have information I want."

Anger bit at her. "What kind of information?" she snapped.

"We will discuss it later," he replied. "In the meantime, I said you had a choice."

"What kind of choice?"

The Ranger looked at her. "You will help us find Merry and Pippin," he told her. "If you do not wish to, then say so, and I will kill you and bury you alongside the Elf."

She recoiled at the idea, and snarled, "He does not deserve a grave!"

"And what makes you different from him, in my eyes?"

Gúthwyn fell silent.

"Make your choice."

She weighed her options. Death—Hammel and Haiweth were most likely to perish anyway, even though she had killed Haldor before he could relay the message back to Barad-dûr. Someone was bound to find out, and when they did, she could only imagine the consequences. And if she went with Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, she most certainly would not be able to find the One Ring. Sauron would not allow her the luxury of limitless time; he would grow impatient, and likely have the children slain out of anger.

A feeling of despair sank down on her. No matter where she turned, their fates and hers were grim. The only good thing about this was that she no longer had to worry about Haldor, which in itself was a miracle.

"_I have healed you in body, though your mind is troubled."_ Galadriel's words unexpectedly came back to her, ones that she had not thought of since their parting. _"It is not in my power to set it at ease, though my heart tells me that this will take away some of what burdens you." She held out a small dagger to Gúthwyn, sheathed in black leather._

So the Lady had been right. Gúthwyn felt her eyes widen. The knife she had received that day was the very one that was now covered in Haldor's blood.

"Well?" Aragorn was watching her carefully.

A cool breeze blew from the west, ruffling her hair and then setting it back gently. Gúthwyn looked to the east, towards Mordor; then turned in the other direction, to where the land of Rohan lay. And then, she made her choice.

"I will go with you," she said.

He nodded, but she could not tell whether he had expected this of her or not. Over his shoulder, she saw Gimli sighing, though Legolas' expression had not changed.

"You may take your bag," Aragorn told her, "as well as the dagger. Do not think of using it on any of us, nor of running away. It will only end in your death."

"What about my sword?" she asked. Her bow she could not care less for. She had brought it with her all the way from Mordor, but apart from a few frustrating practices on her own, had not used it.

"Your sword I will keep," he replied. "If you prove yourself worthy of my trust, or if we find ourselves facing battle, I will give it back to you. Yet both of these seem unlikely."

She turned away from him and went to her bag, not caring to admit how much his words had stung her. Opening it up, she saw that all of her cloaks and scarves were in there, piled on top of everything else. Her glove lay on the ground, and she put it firmly over her wrist, covering the hideous brand. Straightening, she winced slightly at the pain, but tried to mask her discomfort as she made her way back to where Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli stood.

Suddenly, Aragorn stepped forward. "You were wounded," he spoke, looking apologetic. "I did not—"

She shook her head. "It is not bleeding anymore," she replied.

"Have you already forgotten the infection from your Warg bite?" Aragorn returned, then sighed. "We are wasting valuable time. With each second, Merry and Pippin are taken further away. I shall have to look at it later."

At the moment, Gúthwyn was not about to argue with him, but she privately felt that there was no chance she would let the Ranger see her back. Even with Borogor, she was uncomfortable exposing herself like that. She could not begin to think of what it would be like with someone she barely knew.

Gimli sighed then, looking at the eastern shore wistfully. "Then it has all been in vain," he murmured wearily. "The Fellowship has failed."

Aragorn propped his foot up on a smaller stone statue, following the Dwarf's gaze. Slowly, Legolas and Gimli approached him, though Gúthwyn hung back. She was glad that she had, for the Ranger placed one hand on their shoulders, putting his head close to their own. She had to strain to hear what he said next.

"Not if we hold true to each other." His voice was firm and determined. "We will not abandon Merry and Pippin to torment and death. Not while we have strength left."

He separated from them, picking up a dagger from the ground and then striding over to where Gúthwyn's sword lay. He attached the sheathe to his belt, just behind his own blade. She felt a twinge of frustration at being so helpless.

Aragorn turned back to them, smiled grimly, and said, "Leave all that can be spared behind. We travel light."

Gúthwyn cast one last glance to the eastern shore before Aragorn called her name. "Gúthwyn, you will run between Legolas and Gimli," he said. "Attempting anything will be foolish."

She exhaled slowly, looked back at him, and said nothing.

He took her silence for acquiescence, and said, "Let us hunt some Orc."

A very small grin crept up her face. _That is a sport I could get used to,_ she thought.

The Ranger was now starting to head into the woods. Legolas swiftly followed him; Gúthwyn barely had time to blink before she was running, too. Gimli came just behind her. The chase had begun.

_Hammel, Haiweth,_ she thought as she ran. _I will find a way to escape and set you free. I promise._

She sent a prayer up to the Valar for their safety. Her own… It was no matter. She was alone.

**The End**

* * *

Well, the first part of The Rohan Pride Trilogy has ended. It feels crazy! I started this in sixth grade--_sixth grade. _Can you believe that? Now it's finally finished, but I'm just getting started. I hope you liked it, and will stick around for the second part. I promise, things will start to get more interesting. There will be more conflict with Legolas, along with the excitement of Rohan. Nor will I forget about Borogor and the children. At this point in time, I'm starting to work on the tenth chapter--there is always a ten-chapter gap between the one I'm working on and the one I'm posting.

I'd like to thank my friend **toratigergirl11**, who insisted that I work on this even when I didn't want to. I know how you want this story to end, hehe, but we shall see. Also, to my other friend, **Zoe**, who as I write this still hasn't gotten past the twenty-second chapter, but she's shown a ton of interest in it. Thanks for putting up with me:)

Second of all, to **Callie**: Your first review made my day. I have it saved to my inbox and everything. Words cannot describe how amazed and ecstatic I was to read it. To answer your question--I'm afraid we won't be finding out much more about Haldor from this point on, but my back story for him is that he was captured and tortured by Sauron until he became evil. Sort of like what Morgoth did in _The Silmarillion_, only Sauron doesn't have the power to change appearances like that. As for him looking like Legolas, well, where would the fun be if he didn't:P

Finally, to everyone else who reviewed, thank you so much! I really appreciate the time you took to leave a note and tell me what you thought. Hopefully I'll see you for Part Two!

Until then,

**WhiteLadyOfTroy**


End file.
